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SOUTHERN POEMS 


7 / - 

F. E? BUTLER, A.M. 

JACKSONVILLE, TEXAS 
Texas, Christian University, 

Certificate School of Theology, Vanderbilt University, 
Ex-Vice-President Alumni Association 
Charter Member Philosophic Society, Vanderbilt University 
Ex-President Grayson College, 

Professor Ancient and Modern Languages, Grayson College. 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 


3so3 
‘U ? 72 , S& 
/f 2.3 


Copyright, 1923, 
By F. E. BUTLER 

All rights reserved 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



THE PLIMPTON PRESS 

NORWOOD, MASS., U. S. A. 

SEP 22 '23 

©C1A760338 

-w* \ 



To 

MY MOTHER, MRS. LOUISA BUTLER, 


AND TO 

MY AUNTS, S. M. SULLIVAN 

AND 

M. V. SULLIVAN, 

Who, after my mother’s death, 
reared and educated me, 

AND 

MY WIFE, MRS. LAURA P. BUTLER. 

F. E. Butler. 



IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF 
MISS S. M. SULLIVAN, 

Whose consistent life and loving service 
have been 


a perpetual benediction to me 


Houston, Texas, 
Feb. 11th, 1923 


J. M. Boyle 








PREFACE 


This book is a part of the product of a life very 
busy until the last few years, when ill health and 
other contingencies enforced a period of compara¬ 
tive idleness. A few of the poems have been pub¬ 
lished, but the great majority of them have lain fal¬ 
low, accumulating into this collection. I am keenly 
aware of their imperfection, but possibly not so 
much so, as the critical eyes, which, I trust, will do 
me the honor of their perusal. 

I have named the collection “Southern Poems” 
because I have tried to embody in it somewhat of 
the distinct flavor of our Southern life and thought. 
But I disclaim any tinge of sectionalism, for I am 
loyal to the entire Union. The publication of this 
book is made possible by the grateful generosity of 
Mr. J. M. Boyle of Houston, Texas, as a Memo¬ 
rial to my aunt, Miss S. M. Sullivan, who at his 
mother’s death took him to her heart and home. 
This she did for four orphans, three of whom have 
shown a proper appreciation. The fourth merits 
no notice here. To Mr. Boyle is hereby extended 
my grateful appreciation. 

The notation for airs composed by myself to ac¬ 
company two poems was transcribed by Prof. V. O. 
Stamps of this city. I tender to him my sincere 
thanks. 


PREFACE 


My obligation is hereby acknowledged to the 
Plimpton Press, of Norwood, Mass., for the excel¬ 
lent mechanical finish of the volume. 

F. E. Butler. 

Jacksonville, Texas, 

Feb. ii, 1923. 


INDEX 


Angels of Memory . 

April . 

Armada, The . 

Armageddon . 

At the Carnegie . 

At the Club. 

Aunt Sallie . 

Bampa . 

Beyond the Gates . 

Blue-bird, The . 

Brotherhood . 

Butterfly, The . 

Canary, The . 

Chimes, The . 

Choice, The . 

Comet, The . 

Comrades in Arms . 

Confession . 

Contentment . 

Critics, The . 

Crowning, The . 

Dad McRay . 

Dead Mocking-bird, The .. 

Doctor Blazes . 

Drummer’s Wooing, The . 

England . 

Feed My Sheep . 

Foolish Bird, The . 

Forward Looking . 

Gamblers, The . 

Gloaming, The . 


I 

Gossipers, The . 163 

Greece Immortal . 83 

Hidden Hands, The . 158 

High-brows, The . 145 

Horoscope, The . 170 

Hymn to the Rising Sun .. 51 

Hypatia . 154 

Ichabod . 168 

If . 62 

Islands of Peace, The .... 156 

Kultur . 39 

Lanier, Sidney . 149 

Last Bubble, The . 114 

Lee, Robert E. 30 

Life . $2 

Little Children . 36 

Little Leaf, The . 146 

Lucinda . 76 

Luck . 129 

Madrigal, A . 17 

Marne, The . 158 

Meditation, A . 34 

Ministering Spirits . 132 

My Mother’s Death . 117 

My Books . 21 

No Substitute . n6 

Other Fellow’s Boy, The .. 119 

Oh, Soul of Mine . 127 

Our Dead . eg 


Paris and Helen 


10 

105 

140 

63 

138 

86 

49 

58 

106 

88 

60 

40 

93 

38 

66 

75 

74 

19 

9 

137 

89 

11 

112 

143 

46 

47 

130 

135 

13 

133 


7 


























































8 


INDEX 


Poet, The . 

Poilu, The . 

Princess and the Milk¬ 
maid, The . 

Professor, The. 

Progress . 

Proposal, The. 

Prudie Dudine . 

Reverie . 

Sacramental Hymn . 

Sacrifice, The . 

Sir Christopher . 

Skunk and the ’Possum, The 

Solitude . 

Some Day . 

Sympathetic . 

Swine-herder, The . 


Temple of the Soul, The .. 151 

To Mary in Heaven. 79 

To My Wife . 67 

Tomb of General Grant, 

The . 81 

Translation, The . 44 

Twilight . 97 

Uncle Eph’s Cat-fight. 109 

United . 78 

Unsatisfied . 160 

Waterloo . (97 

What I Said to Laura .... 108 

What I Love . 102 

Where All Roads Come To¬ 
gether . 175 

Wish, A . 164 


15 

165 

134 

131 

150 

33 

147 

103 

82 

68 

42 

76 

99 

30 

159 

167 





























SOUTHERN POEMS 


THE CRITICS 

T OMORROW the Critics will begin; 

Who are the Critics? you ask; 

’Tis the bunch who think you cannot win 
Unless you have done their task. 

They have said this thing three thousand years, 
They have blamed and praised by turns; 

But the bards have thrived on crusts and tears 
From Homer to Keats and Burns. 

Tomorrow, the Critics may find out 
Perhaps, that you have a song; 

If you have something to sing about, 

Sing, whether right or wrong. 

Your tune may wobble, now high, now low, 
You may miss some notes of the staff, 

But sing from your heart and let it go; 

The Critics will clap and laugh. 

Pegasus flies not with bridle on 
Nor a cranked Muse ever sings; 

Whenever they soar o’er Helicon 
They must rise on their own free wings. 

Go, then, little book, with smiling face, 

Nor try to explain or frown; 


IO 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Give thanks for the words of blame or praise 
From Men of the Cap and Gown. 

Then here’s to the Critic whoever he be, 

’Ere he read this book of mine:— 

I drain my goblet, good Friend, to thee 
In rich old Falernian wine. 


ANGELS OF MEMORY 

A TEMPLE I built in the long, long ago 
Is standing in beauty supreme, 

Where the splendors of springtime are always 
aglow 

And the flowers of Eden eternally blow, 

And life in that temple a dream. 

’Tis a temple no eye but my own may behold, 

No vandal its shrine may invade; 

Its cloisters of silence my loved ones enfold, 

Its altar is lighted by candles of gold 
And its holiness never can fade. 

To its sanctum sanctorum I go all alone 
When the night shuts the world from my view; 

For the Angels of Memory holy have grown 
In the service of love through the years that have 
flown 

And daily that service renew. 

How often I yearn for the eyes’ vivid glow 
Now obscured by the mist of the sea, 

For the touch of a hand with a thrill that I know, 
For the sound of a voice of the long, long ago, 

And the lips that were heaven to me. 


SOUTHERN POEMS n 

They cannot come back from the land of the leal, 
From the place that we call Paradise; 

But oh, what a joy in their presence I feel 

When I know that they live in the realm of the real 

And all tears have been wiped from their eyes. 

Thank God for the temple where memory dwells 
And thanks for its altar aglow, 

For the hope that we have as a breeze that impels 
Our wings toward the sky; for the promise which 
tells 

That they live whom we loved long ago. 


THE DEAD MOCKING-BIRD 

S WEET songster, thou art dead, 

Stretched cold and stiff and mute upon the 
ground; 

Thy fellows in abysmal shades around 
Will not be comforted. 

Thy sombre, songless mate 

Above thee sits repining all the day, 

Unspoken grief more gracious than the lay 
Poured forth in love of late. 

But yesterday thy voice 

With liquid music thrilled the evening air; 

Now death’s rude hand has silenced everywhere 
The woodland’s mystic noise. 

How strange, indeed, it seems, 

Thy lyric notes so full of melody, 

Vibrant with love and choral harmony 
Live but in memory’s dreams. 


12 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


The wondrous nightingale 

Has but one theme, and yields her crown to thee 
Who singest all songs of wildwood minstrelsy, 

If mirth or grief prevail. 

No teacher e’er was thine 

Save the deep rumblings of the stormy sky, 

Or evening winds as they went singing by 
Through groves of spicy pine. 

Thou hast a thousand times, 

Where honeysuckle blooms and jasmine meet, 
Poured through the air the listener’s ear to greet 
Thy soul’s melodious chimes. 

’Neath rose-encumbered bower, 

Whose languid odors lave the dreamy air, 
Enraptured lovers blessing thee declare 
The witchery of thy power. 

Or, when in joy complete 

With glowing eyes and whispered words of love, 
Two hearts made one, thou bidst them constant 
prove 

With Cupid’s music sweet. 

The lusty skylark strong 
Soars to the upper air where all is bright 
And on exultant wings he greets the light 
With his imperial song. 

But thou, our Southern bird, 

Bringest when midnight shadows round us spread, 
Where weeping eyes watch o’er the placid dead, 

The music thou hast heard 


SOUTHERN POEMS 13 

Amid the waving trees— 

The symphonies of nature ’neath the cloud; 

Thou charmest away the terrors of the shroud 
Bringing the mourners’ peace. 

On gory battle-fields, 

Where Southern heroes built their Hall of Fame 
And honor lights its shrine with sacred flame, 

Thy song pure incense yields. 

Surely, Almighty Love, 

Who filled thy voice with ecstasy divine, 

Has for his glory willed for thee and thine 
To sing in choirs above. 

Dear feathered friend, farewell! 

Within the garden thou shalt rest in peace, 

And when the springtime showers bring their in- 
crease , |i]Ml 

’Neath roses thou shalt dwell. 

And many a time at eve, 

When flowers perfume the mellow, moonlit air, 
I’ll think of thee, as thou art sleeping there, 

And for thy vespers grieve. 


THE GAMBLERS 

I WAS a staunch Republican 
And she a blooming Democrat, 
And each prepared to back his man 
With cash—no, we had none of that. 

Besides, we knew there was a law 
And that the jail would be our fate; 


14 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


But when two want to gamble, pshaw! 
Who ever saw them hesitate? 

And then I said, “I’ll bet on Taft 
And you on Wilson risk your luck”; 

I saw her smile; of course, I laughed 
For we had both been reading Puck. 

“You bet on Jumbo then,” she said, 

“And see how far you’ll go amiss”; 

“Go it on Grandma, pretty maid, 

The penalty shall be a kiss.” 

Then, busy with my daily dues 
To right and left I quickly sped; 

At ten, Jones said, “It’s splendid news! 
Republicans are far ahead.” 

And so I hurried with the news 
That fell on Sue with awful crash; 

She said she would no debt refuse— 

And then I made the entry, Cash. 

At twelve I heard the telephone, 

A sizzle—pop! as if the cork 

From champagne bottle high had flown— 

“Tom, Democrats have swept New York.” 

It filled my heart with deep dismay, 

But still, I was to honor true; 

I hurried up my debt to pay 

And got “Receipted” signed by Sue. 

At three, I got a telegram, 

The gladdest one I ever saw, 

(I hereby give the Mormons palm) 
“Republicans have swept Utah!” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


i5 


Again I hurried up the street 
And showed the telegram to Sue, 

She wept, but hopeful still and sweet. 

Again I balanced, No. 2. 

At six, the grand finale came, 

Then rang the furious phone anew:— 
“Torn, Wilson is the winner’s name, 

Do not forget your debt is due.” 

And standing by the banister 
Radiant with joy as angel looks, 

I checked my losses up with her; 

She said, “We now will close the books.” 

And, as I turned and started from 
Her with political regrets, 

She said, “We both are honest, Tom, 

For we have paid our gambling debts.” 

THE POET 

T HE Poet is divine; his heritage 

Is not like other men’s of gold or land; 
For linked by centuries 
Of inspiration he feels indeed 
His kinship to the gods. 

He is their breath, their symbol and their will, 
And their interpreter. His thoughts 
Are tinged with fury or delight, 

Just as the bow reflects the tints 
Of light upon the cloud 
Or rims the tempest round. 

The Poet is immortal; ’tis his dower 
To claim all ages as his own 


16 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And walk untouched 

Amid the ruins of remorseless time. 

He sees the wreck of empires, 

Cities buried and forgotten, 

And gilded palaces, whence kings 
Sent forth their minions of a day, 

Become the home of bitterns and of bats. 

He hears still echoing through their solitudes 
The inarticulate mumblings of the wise, 

The shibboleth of vanity and fools, 

The empty jargon of philosophy 
Changing with every moon, 

All clanging vapid incoherence 
Drifting to nebulous infinity. 

The Poet is omniscient; every sun 
And every little star pour forth their light 
Upon the dark arcana 
Of all the universe for him. 

And thus the shrouding shadows of the Past 
Become as luminous as the day, 

And thus the souls of men 

Pass in review before his lustrous sight, 

And error’s hideous deformity 
No longer blinds the holiness of truth. 

The Poet sees all things; 

The clouds that shut out heaven from other men 
Are messengers to him of wondrous force 
That builds and beautifies, 

Curtains that shroud the glory of the skies 
From stark intrusion, hedged about 
By lightnings glare and thunder-peal. 

The winds loquacious as they pass 
Tell him of verdant moors or bosky dales 
When mellow notes of birds responsive 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Sound to joyous waterfalls, and flowers 
Mingle their fragrance with the moonlit air. 

The Poet is omnipresent; his long wings 
Speeding unseen through paths ethereal 
Bear him to where the primal light 
Glowed fresh through Eden’s bowers. 

He saw the dual horns of the first moon 

That rose above the tinted clouds 

O’er the Euphrates. He beheld 

The Serpent’s sneer and the revolving sword 

Hard by the Garden’s gate. He stood 

With Joshua when the lifted hand 

Forbade the hastening sun 

Till he subdued the sons of Amalek. 

He was with Socrates when that great soul 
Triumphed through death, and he beheld 
Great Caesar victim of his own ambition, 

And Antony and Cleopatra’s love. 

His grave is full of light; no darkness 
Can hide the halo of bay-leaves 
That rests in glory on his brow, 

Nor death revoke the secrets 

The Muses whispered on his natal day. 

And he will sing in dim Valhalla’s shades 
For demi-gods and heroes of the earth. 

’Tis thus the gods decree. 

So mote it be. 


A MADRIGAL 

H OW oft I think of bygone days 
As with bait and pole arrayed 
I hastened along the forest ways 
Through paths the cattle made. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And as the dogwoods waved their snow 
In April by the stream, 

In the scented air I used to go 
And dream and fish and dream. 

And when the brook went rippling by 
With the springtime winds above, 

I would think of her till the earth and sky 
Were redolent of my love. 

And many a time with the dawn aglow, 

When dew from the leaves dripped down, 

I have dropped a line to my friends below— 
But not by the post in town. 

And the painted cork would disappear 
Or bob in the whirling stream, 

When a hungry trout in the water clear 
Would splash, and disturb my dream. 

Then the red-buds flamed in the smoky jpr 
As though they were dipped in blood 
And the wood-peck drummed his hole up there 
Where the leafless pine tree stood. 

And the peach-trees sat like a crown of gold 
On the rim of the distant hill, 

While the rocks like sentinels of old 
Stood guard by the ruined mill. 

And the buckeye burned with crimson light 
Of fire at the dawn of day, 

While the gray-beards hung their tassels white 
O’er the hills at the birth of May. 

Those were the days I wished to fish 
And the days the fish wished me 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


i9 


And Fd give the fish if the girl I wish 
A fisherman’s wife would be. 

Ah! April days are the'days for me, 

For the grass and the budding grove; 
Goodbye to the bird and the fish and the bee! 
I’m going to see my love. 

CONTENTMENT 
(After Horace) 

H APPY the man who daily lives 
On his paternal plot 
Contented with what labor gives 
Nor murmurs at his lot. 

He needs no wide extended plain 
Nor forest thick with trees; 

The lure of cities he disdains 
And wealth’s inglorious ease. 

He has no great and useless store 
Of hoarded gold or grain, 

But, still, the latch-string of his door 
Is never pulled in vain. 

No boon does he from fortune ask 
Nor slights those she has given; 

Each day he ends some humble task 
And leaves the rest to heaven. 

No guilty secret in his breast 
Can cause his feet to roam; 

He has no grief for what is past 
Nor fears of what may come. 


20 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


No vast ambition e’er beguiles 
His mind with glory’s themes, 

Nor beauty’s evanescent smiles 
Arouse love’s transient dreams. 

No meretricious praise he seeks 
Nor fears the critic’s eye; 

The plain, unvarnished truth he speaks 
And hates the gilded lie. 

Where lives the virtuous, earnest thought 
Or grand, heroic deed, 

In that enduring shrine are wrought 
His culture and his creed. 

No words has he that would deride 
The good by others done, 

No trumpet’s blare to publish wide 
The peace that he has won. 

His father’s grave is on the hill, 

His mother’s by his side, 

And with them, when his heart is still 
In death, he will abide. 

He often utters a short prayer 
For those he loved so dear, 

Nor does he wish that he were there, 
Nor yet, that they were here. 

Thus living, his last days will be 
Like some bright evening s'tar 
That gently sinks beneath the sea 
But sends its beams afar. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


21 


MY BOOKS 

I LOVE my Books, who does not love 
To have such friends abound? 

Friends who each day their value prove 
And more than kings are crowned. 

They have the glamor of the great 
And rich the thoughts they speak; 

Some mirror Rome’s imperial state 
And some the glorious Greek. 

Some our vocal organs wrench 
With German gutturals, 

Some clip their words with rhythmic French 
Which every sense enthralls. 

And all around like Pharic lights 
The men of our own blood 
Invite to their serene delights 
And deathless brotherhood. 

How nobly they abide with me, 

These friends of many years; 

Though I of them forgetful be 
They share my smiles and tears. 

How often unto them I_go 
Whose words my ear attends, 

Who speak the candid truths they know 
And have no selfish ends. 

Though I neglect them for a while 
Or thoughtless pass them by, 

They always greet me with a smile 
Nor ask the reason why. 


22 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And when I reach and take them down 
Happy or filled with cares, 

They have no half concealed frown 
Or patronizing airs. 

With calm disinterestedness 
Whate’er the subject be 
They shed their light but never press 
Conclusions upon me. 

And those who once were hostile, now 
Forget the martial art 
With laurels on each radiant brow 
And peace in every heart. 

Historian, philosopher 
And poet gladly bring 
Their treasures and as friends confer 
With tinker and with king. 

Here preachers of the sacred Word 
And those who disbelieved 
Together dwell in sweet accord 
Nor each with other grieved. 

And they who wore the martyr’s crown 
And they who set the fire 
In sweet complacency look down 
Nor cherish grief nor ire. 

’Tis strange that we who here abide 
And strive for selfish ends 
Should fear to cross death’s turbid tide 
To join our waiting friends. 

For light eternal on them sheds 
Its rays, and night dispels, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 23 

And glory circles round their heads 

Her crown of immortelles. 

And when my sands of life are run, 

My soul will dwell in peace 

If I but find, when I am gone, 

Sweet fellowship with these. 

PARIS AND HELEN 

’'-pWAS in the fabled long ago, when history 
A was young, 

When mighty deeds of demigods by noble bards 
were sung, 

Then Menelaus gathered up a hundred thousand 
men 

To punish perjured Paris and bring Helen home 
again. 

For Paris had defiled his home and, hence, defied 
his throne 

And Menelaus took an oath by blood he should 
atone, 

Though well he knew the Olympian gods in battle 
would divide 

With some for the avenging Greeks and some on 
Trojan side. 

Two years they spent in building ships and drilling 
their cohorts 

With spear and shield and batfle-ax, and vied in 
manly sports, 

And many a Spartan helmet fell upon Euboean 
ground 

Or Attic sword-thrust in the joust a dark Mes- 
senian found. 


24 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


By day becalmed, they tacked about and brawny 
sailor t s rowed, 

By night they scudded with the wind as bright 
Arcturus glowed, 

Now by Polaris’ silver light they sought the north¬ 
ern skies, 

Now eastward while Orion’s flames from midnight 
suns arise. 

They sail the wide Aegean as Bacchantes in a dream 

In slender oaken battle-ships hewn out without a 
seam, 

A vast Armada went they forth among the Isles 
of Greece 

Past which the Argonauts had sailed to seek the 
Golden Fleece. 

They sing the love they left behind, the maids that 
for them weep, 

The matrons toiling and the dreams of little ones 
asleep, 

While Chiron chants the stars above, each con- 
# stellation’s name, 

Which Jason and Medea had heard and praised 
with loud acclaim. 

At length, near Tenedos 'and Troy their eyes be¬ 
hold the land 

Where the Scamander pours his flood adown the 
golden sand, 

Where Venus pierced by earthly love in good An¬ 
drises’ home 

Preserved the royalty of Troy, the hope of future 
Rome. 

Around the fated city’s walls and on Mount Ida’s 
brow, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


25 

Where Paris oft had led his sheep, the Greek’s are 
marching now 

And Trojan eyes behold the flare of cities burning 
near 

But Hector reads the doom of Troy told Priam 
by the seer. 

With shouts the eager Greeks advance at Agamem¬ 
non’s word 

And soon Protesilaus falls by Hector’s shining 
sword, 

By Zeus revived he joins his wife and with her dies 
again, 

By prophecy fulfilled, they live in elm-trees of the 
plain. 

Nine years in vain the Achaeans strive to scale the 
Trojan wall 

And Teucer, Neoptolemus behold their heroes fall, 

For Tithonus and Memnon hurl defiance to the foe 

While shades Dardanian o’er the Styx to gloomy 
Orcus go. 

How oftentime where Eros is, there too, will Eris 
be; 

Ulysses’ love will ever live for pure Penelope, 

But Agamemnon’s shadow falls across Achilles’ 
path 

And dread Apollo’s silver bow will twang for 
Thetis’ wrath. 

Now Paris sends a challenge to the noblest of his 
foes, 

And by the herald he demands the honor he be¬ 
stows, 

To Menelaus, Ajax, to Idomeneus of Crete, 

To furious Achilles in a combat him to meet. 


2 6 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


But Helen sits before the loom her history to weave 

With golden thread; anon she stops to drop a tear 
and grieve, 

When thinks she of Mycaenae and her husband de¬ 
solate— 

But Iris comes to lead her to the marble Scaean 
gate. 

There Hecuba and Priam sit with Helen o’er the 
gate 

To see if Mars or Juno will decide her dubious 
fate, 

And as the Argive heroes hurry each one to his 
place 

She points them out to Priam as she hides her 
blushing face. 

The hostile lines are soon arrayed upon the dusty 
plain 

And beauteous Paris hastens to erase dishonor’s 
stain, 

For, with unerring aim his spear strikes Menelaus’ 
shield, 

While Menelaus breaks his sword but drags him 
from the field. 

The prize was Helen and the wealth that she had 
brought to Troy 

And the Achaeans thunder forth their loud, torna- 
dic joy; 

But Aphrodite in a mist bears Paris high above 

To Helen, whom she first upbraids then soothes 
with tender love. 

Then, as the winds of Eolus within the cave con¬ 
tained 


SOUTHERN POEMS 27 

Break through the bounds by Neptune set and rav¬ 
age unrestrained; 

So now, the Greeks go raging forth with awful 
strepitude; 

The Trojans hurl them reeling back by martial 
might endued. 

Two days, the gods inspiring them, the battle must 
proceed, 

And soon Aeneas falls beneath the blows of Dio¬ 
mede; 

But Venus shrouds her fallen son in shining veil 
arrayed 

And wounded seeks Olympian heights and good 
Dione’s aid. 

Now Mars descends upon the field which Tydides 
had won; 

The Greeks perceiving this retreat pursued by Sar- 
pedon, 

Enraged Minerva then appears to lead them forth 
again 

And wounded Mars gives up the fight and bellows 
loud with pain. 

The noble Hector hastens home to bid the women 
pray, 

But Paris there he boldly chides that he with them 
should stay; 

And young Astyanax he holds to his paternal breast 

And bids Andromache farewell, his fate her tears at¬ 
test. 

Achilles sulks within his tent, nor aids the beaten 
Greeks, 

Though Agamemnon makes amends and reconcile¬ 
ment seeks, 


28 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Until Patroclus speaks to him of wounded Machaon 

And that Ulysses, Diomede were overthrown and 
gone. 

And then Patroclus sallies forth, Achilles’ armor on, 

And like a raging lion seeks and slays great Sar- 
pedon, 

But Hector in his chariot speeds, Hector who 
knows no fear, 

Enraged, Patroclus pierces through with his white, 
ashen spear. 

Achilles learning this cries out, is heard in deepest 
sea, 

And Thetis hurries to inquire what grievance there 
could be; 

Then fearing lest he hasten to avenge Patroclus’ 
fate 

She speeds to busy Vulcan a new armor to create. 

Just as the evening stars go down beneath the 
western skies, 

So now the light benign must fade from dying Hec¬ 
tor’s eyes; 

His body by Achilles chained to his victorious car 

Twice drags he round Patroclus’ tomb and then 
round Troy afar. 

Polyxena, the beautiful enthralls Achilles’ eyes, 

The son of Theatis dipped in Styx, a hero but not 
wise, 

For in Apollo’s temple he enclosed in shining steel 

Was pierced by Paris’ fatal dart and wounded in 
the heel. 

By Thetis’ wish a contest rose, Achilles’ arms the 
prize, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 29 

And by Minerva’s arts they pass into Ulysses wise; 

~- u f_ . r P°lyxena is slain amid her youthful bloom 

A Trojan sacrifice upon her Grecian lover’s tomb. 

And now fair Ilium falls by stealth which valor 
failed to win, 

The Greeks withdrawn to Tenedos, the Wooden 
Horse brought in; 

The raging foes her palaces with fire and sword de¬ 
stroy; 

But Love’s immortal Epic lives to light the gloom 
of Troy. 

What though their joys were sanctified by no con¬ 
nubial grace 

Of mumbling priest in garish glare or dithyrambic 
lays ? 

One universal law obtained and ever will obtain— 

Fate made them one, love kept them one, until 
death made them twain. 

With creaking, weather-beaten prows the Greeks 
the billows spurn, 

But Diomede, Achilles and Ajax will not return; 

And back to far Mycaenae Menelaus Helen brings 

While Clytemnestra slays her lord whose sorrows 
Homer sings. 

Farewell, good Priam, Hecuba, Polyxena; farewell 

Andromache, Astyanax, whose doom the gods com¬ 
pel; 

How Iulius and Aeneas flee the burning city’s fate 

Through Juno’s wrath to infant Rome, let Virgil’s 
muse relate. 

Beyond the fiery Phlegethron their souls in Hades 
dwell 


30 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


With Pluto and Proserpina in meads of asphodel, 
Or in Elysian Fields where blow soft Zephyrs from 
the west 

And righteous Rhadamanthus rules in Islands of 
the Blest. 


SOME DAY 

S OME day, some day, some happy day, 
A ship will sail with us away 
To distant bourne, 

Beyond the breakers’ monotone 
Will anchor in a sunlit zone 
And not return. 

Some day, some day, some happy day, 
The things for which we watch and pray 
’Neath heaven’s blue, 

Will dawn upon our raptured eyes 
And fill our souls with sweet surprise, 
And all be true. 

Some day, some day, some happy day, 
We’ll hear the blessed Master say 
“You have been true, 

Come hither, my Beloved, come 
To mansions in my Father’s home 
Prepared for you.’’ 

ROBERT E. LEE 

H ATS off! Here comes a real man, 
Prince of the world is he, 

A typical American, 

The Southland’s Robert Lee. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

No boast makes he of princely blood 
Or knightly chivalry; 

His royalty is gift of God 
Although a Bruce is he. 

Where best and bravest souls have won 
A martial pedigree 

With Grant and Jackson, Washington, 
Stands the immortal Lee. 

No tyrant power or puppet crown 
Nor empire wide sought he; 

For such there was Olympian frown 
From our own Robert Lee. 

When duty called for sacrifice 
And when the choice was free, 

He met the challenge once and twice 
With matchless majesty. 

Amid the giants of the earth 
A Jovian name has he, 

His greatness measured by his worth— 
Our own, our peerless Lee. 

Where history blazons the great page 
Of immortality 

With name of hero, saint or sage, 

The first is Robert Lee. 


THE CANARY 


D EAR little canary, 
Thy morning song 
So light and airy 
I would prolong. 


32 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


When day is breaking, 

Thou little bird, 

Sweet memories waking 
By thee are stirred. 

Of late, IVe thought me 
Of days gone by, 

And thou hast taught me 
The reason why. 

The songs thou art singing 
The past recall, 

Loved memories bringing 
From darkened hall. 

In fragrant bowers 
I bid thee sing 
To evening hours 
Still lingering. 

Goodbye, sweet singer; 

In pleasure, pain, 

Thou canst not bring Her 
To me again. 

THE PROPOSAL 
(Mrs. Nina Isabel Jennings—Ewing) 

I SAID to darling Nina, 

“I’m going soon to China; 

If you will go 
Pray tell me so, 

If not, I’ll marry Dinah.” 

Said she, “You horrid feller, 

Have you but just to tell her 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

As you’ve told me 
To ready be 

And by such words compel her?” 

Lest I should take a tumble 
I spoke in words more humble; 
“Oh, dearest, no, 

Don’t take it so, 

Nor let your anger rumble.” 

“Too long have we now tarried 
Such plans have oft miscarried”— 
Said she, “I know, 

Tell Daddy so, 

Next week we will be married.” 

“We’ll walk straight or oblique in- 
To every joy in Pekin, 

Pagoda’s walls 

Or palace halls 

We’ll go and spend a week in. 

“We’ll see the imperial bruin, 

The Great Wall and its ruin; 

On the Yang-ste-kiang 
We’ll dance to the gong, 

And ride in a blimp with Tu-an. 

“We’ll sail o’er Canton gliding 
With Ah Sin safely guiding, 

To the Ho-ang-Ho 

We’ll surely go 

In a rickety rickshaw riding. 

“We’ll fish for the ichthyosaurus—” 
“Oh, will they fry one for us?” 


33 


34 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


No, no,” said I, 

“We’ll live on pie 
And the tongue of a Texan taurus. 

“We’ll go where they are excavating 
Some ancient records dating 
To the days of Adam—” 

“Oh, I thought they had ’em!” 

“No, they were exaggerating. 

“No sight shall you see ruder 
Than ivory bust of Buddha, 

And Cupid be 

To you and me 

Each day the sole intruder.” 

She: “We’ll chatter the Chinese lingo, 
And to the Tomb of the Ming go, 

We’ll go in a whirl 

On a trip round the world”— 

“And we’ll draw on your Dad, by jingo!” 


A MEDITATION 

T HE long, hot day is ended, 
The sun’s refulgent rim 
Into the night descended 
Sends streamers after him, 

And blue and saffron billows 
Pierce through the misty pillows 
That hang like weeping willows 
O’er chasms vast and dim. 

I look down on the city 
Where discord reigns supreme 
For insane greed, oh pity, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

It takes no time to dream; 

But crazed by mad endeavor 
It hurries on and ever 
And Beauty’s voice can never 
Call to the life supreme. 

Far out beyond the regions 
Where clouds and sunbeams cease 
The stars in endless legions 
Reflect their silent peace. 

And as we look, we wonder 
\Vhat laws they must live under, 
Life, death the peace or thunder 
Of myriad mysteries. 

Are those bright worlds immortal? 
Who lit their quenchless fires? 

Or are they but the portal 
To vast funereal pyres 
Which have burned on for ages 
Where pandemonium rages, 

Nor heaven nor hell assuages 
Their unappeased desires. 

Or are they sown with order 
Through amplest amplitude, 

The out-posts of that border 
Where thought cannot intrude; 
Where angels flying over 
Cry out when they discover 
The foot-prints of Jehovah 
In space’s solitude? 

In those bright realms are creatures 
Nearer to God than we? 

Have they supernal features, 

From fear and pain are free? 
Where life and death dividing 


35 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Nor twain in one abiding 
Nor a vain past deriding, 

What they have been shall be? 

Do they, as we, go prying 
For things beyond their sight, 
And in their darkness crying 
For light, for light, for light? 
Have they no vantage higher 
To reach the soul’s desire 
And see the eternal fire 
That makes creation bright? 

Is there no common center 
Where time and all her brood 
Of soul and mind may enter 
The dark Misunderstood? 

Where faith and sight agreeing 
And all the unseen seeing 
Are merged in deathless being 
In council halls of God? 

When the last beam has faded 
From the last sinking sun 
And the human mind unaided 
Thinks as it has begun, 

Earth’s eyes will still be turning 
To evening stars, bright burning 
And seek with passionate yearning 
To know the great Unknown. 

LITTLE CHILDREN 

O H, the little feet that patter 
And the little eyes that glow, 
Oh, the little hands that scatter 
Sunshine everywhere they go. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Who amid life’s busy battle 
Could find hope along the way 
If the children’s artless prattle 
Did not help him day by day? 

Hear the shouting and the laughing 
Of their childish ecstasy! 

Richest goblets we are quaffing 
When their happiness we see. 

Yes, vain woman, it is shocking 
That you do not feel the need 
Of a little cradle rocking; 

You prefer to dance or read. 

All the jewels that have crowned you 
Cannot bring such pure delight 
As love’s necklace clasped around you 
With its dimples soft and white. 

You may boast of wealth and station, 
You may prate of power and fame, 
But the poor have consolation 
In the mother’s holy name. 


Oh, the sacred omnipresence 
Of the children that are dead; 

And that life has lost its essence 
Whence this sweetest love has fled. 

In the hut or in the palace 
This unfailing truth we find— 

He who bears to children malice 
Is a brute in human kind. 


37 


38 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


THE CHOICE 

T AKE thou the city with its ways 

Its fevered pulse, its hurrying feet, 
Its jealous hearts, its frantic craze, 

Its tragic sorrows to repeat. 

Give me the country where the rocks 
Lift high their craggy peaks in air, 
Where golden grain in billowy shocks 
Laugh out at poverty and care. 

Take thou the glamor of the crowd, 

Its trouhled souls, its throbbing brain, 

Its nabobs and its nobles proud, 

Its pride, its poverty, its pain. 

Give me the forest where the green 
Is mingled with the circling blue 
In rifts of clouds, where light between 
Comes pouring down on glittering dew. 

Take thou the gorgeous street at night 
Where votaries of fashion meet, 

Where folly’s garishness so bright 
Pleasure pursues with fairy feet. 

Give me the lane where every mile 
Looks over fields of wheat or maize, 
Where neighbors meet and chat awhile 
And mockings sing along the ways. 

Take thou the city’s pliant creed, 

Its fashions and its foolishness, 

Take thou its gambling and its greed 
Its myriad forms of deep distress. 

Give me the country where the heart 
Is in the grasp of friendly hand, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


39 


Where sympathetic tear-drops start 
And manhood staple of the land. 

Take thou the silver and the gold, 
The vanities that vie with these, 

The marts where purity is sold 
The nights of pleasure, days of ease. 
Give me the sweet philosophy 
Of duty done without a wrong; 

Give me the immortality 

That lives and breathes in poet’s song. 

KULTUR 

T HE Germans are a peaceful folk 
And have been so for years, 
Although one time they did provoke 
The warlike French to Thiers. 

King William stayed awhile in France 
With Bismarck to obtain 
A title, (a mere circumstance) 

To Alsace and Lorraine. 

But when they crossed the Rhine again 
The Prussians thought it strange 
That Bill and Otto could give pain 
By hauling home French change. 

And then for forty years they planned 
How fine a thing ’twould be 
To make all Europe understand 
The Kults of Germany. 

But they would have to use the rod 
To bring this Kultur out, 


40 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Yet Treitzschke and the German Gott 
Knew what they were about. 

And so, they hastened back to Gaul 
Their Kultur to explain, 

But heathen Joffre had learned it all 
And would not learn again. 

How mean it was in “daddy” Joffre 
This Kultur to defy; 

They fled and took their lager off 
But gladly left Somme-Py. 

The Boches thought it was a sin 
To stay in France and pout; 

A Goose-trot brought the villains in, 

A Fochs-trot swept them out. 


THE BUTTERFLY 

T HOU beauteous thing 
With silken wing 
Of gossamer or fairy, 

With body dressed 

In silken vest 

And form so light and airy, 

The stripes around 

Thy velvet gown 

Protect thee from all danger, 

Thy wings of gauze 

Invoke the laws 

Of honor to a stranger. 

How glad are we 
To offer thee 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Our safest sanctuary, 

And bid thee light 
On lilies white 
And mid our roses tarry 
And rob our flowers 
In truant hours 
Of nectar and of honey 
And rest at ease 
Where it may please 
In shady nook or sunny. 

No truant boy 

Will dare annoy 

Thy resting-pla'ce so cosy, 

Nor laughing girl 

In merry swirl 

With radiant cheek and rosy 

Will think to clutch 

With vandal touch 

The stars on torso shining 

Or break the rings 

Upon thy wings 

With gold-dust intertwining. 

I would not dare 

To tell thee where 

The rarest flowers are growing, 

But bid thee go 

For thou dost know 

The secret of their blowing. 

Where dewdrops call 

Or sun-rays fall 

To crown the summer’s glory— 
There! thou are gone, 

I am alone! 

The same, the same old story. 


4i 


42 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


SIR CHRISTOPHER 

S IR CHRISTOPHER of Ethelstone 
Was lord of high degree; 

His blood was royal as the throne, 

But by himself he lived alone 
Beside the sounding sea. 

His acres spread behind the sea 
As spread the sea before; 

His servitors were thousands, he 
Had plenty and security; 

One thing he needed more. 

His castle sat upon the hill 
Immaculately kept; 

The winds that from the ocean fill 
The hurrying sails with pleasure thrill 
The shores o’er which they swept. 

In marble halls deep silence reigns 
Whence kings and queens look down 
And oaken beams by time were stained 
And brazen doors and rusty chains 
The strong chest guarded round. 

Within that chest was parchment writ 
By William’s conquering hand 
And Norman scutcheon stamped on it; 
A jeweled tiara; to wit, 

Brief deeds to Saxon land. 

From mighty turrets high in air 
He looked across the sea 
To where the Lady Margaret fair 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


43 


Was kneeling with her beads in prayer 
And vesper rosary. 

And with the crucifix upraised 

The Virgin he besought 

That she whom he so oft had praised 

Would grant to Margaret crushed and crazed 

One year of lucid thought. 

And then across the sea he views 
A fluttering flag in air, 

The sign agreed if such good news 
Would ever come his soul to enthuse 
Should Mary hear his prayer. 

Twelve months a dapper steed had stood 

With rich caparison 

Of Abu Becker’s noblest blood 

Which feared nor sand nor fire nor flood, 

Now with his master flown. 

And on through copse and village street 
And round the sounding shore 
His eyes the fluttering pennant greet 
And fire is flying from the feet 
Of steed with foam spread o’er. 

Then up the marble steps he flew 
And swift to Margaret’s room; 

Her eyes spoke all, his words were few, 

And to his throbbing heart he drew 
His bride still in her bloom. 

And soon with happy friends around 
The priest sweet words has said; 

That brow in recent darkness bound 


44 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Was with the jeweled tiara crowned 
Of princes long since dead. 

Now in that castle by the sea 
One room is set aside 
Where good Sir Christopher and she 
Unto the Virgin bend the knee 
And long in prayer abide. 

And thus they pray: “Oh, Mother dear, 
The flag, thy symbol fair, 

That thou our mutual prayer didst hear 
Shall fly to tell us thou art near, 

Nor Margaret shall despair.” 

’Tis twenty years, the flag still flies 
Across the sounding sea, 

Nor good Sir Christopher e’er tries 
To wipe the tears from Margaret’s eyes 
Of love and loyalty. 


THE TRANSLATION 

My aunt, Miss S. M. Sullivan took me after my 
mother’s death. Her Christian life has been my in¬ 
spiration. She is the one referred to by Mr. J. M. 
Boyle, and for whom he has contributed the money 
for the Memorial Edition of this book. She went 
home July 26th, 1890. 

Y EARS ago my Aunt was lying, 

Health no more to gain, 

Slowly, surely, sweetly dying 
Of internal pain. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


45 


Every day did death pursue her, 

Gaining by the way, 

Every day life’s sands were fewer 
Than on yesterday. 

Every day the shadows longer 
Than they’d ever been; 

Every day her faith was stronger 
In the things unseen. 

Every day her fear was lighter 
Until it was gone, 

Every day the way grew brighter 
As she hurried on. 

Every day some truth discerning 
Brought her sweet employ, 

Every day increased her yearning 
For the Master’s joy. 

Every day her life receding 
Brought her rest more near, 

Every day while sweetly pleading 
Came the Comforter. 

Every day new visions bringing 
Did her faith abide, 

Every day the. joy bells ringing 
On the other side. 

The last day her friends around her 
Had no need to pray; 

For the Angels came and crowned her, 

And she went away. t 


4 6 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


ENGLAND 

(i9H) 

G REAT England, mother of us all, 

In language, law and blood the same, 
From every clime thy children call 
Rejoicing in thy sovereign name. 

Thy womb has made the world akin, 

Thy spawn has hatched in every sea; 
Mother of nations thou hast been, 

Mother of nations thou shalt be. 

No plumed helmet dost thou wear, 

No glittering shield upon thy breast, 

No ruffian threatening dost thou dare, 

No rattling sword, no vaunting crest. 

But he who dares with swaggering toast 
’Twixt thee and thine to intervene 
Must be prepared to back his boast 
Or be as other such have been. 

A million hearts pledged to thy weal 
Stand round thee like a living wall, 

And millions more that passion feel 
And unified by justice all. 

Unwilling first to speak the word 
Or shed the blood thou couldst not spare, 
Unwilling now to sheathe the sword 
’Till Europe lasting peace may share. 

Blenheim and Oudenarde attest 
With Waterloo where thou hast stood, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


47 


While the Armada shows when pressed 
How tastes the salt within thy blood. 

Thy sons their brawny hands will join 
From tropic lands to frigid sea 
And with their swords again will coin 
Respect for law and liberty. 

Thy Saxon womb has made us kin, 
Thy Magna Carta made us free; 
Mother of nations thou hast been, 
Guardian of nations thou shalt be. 


FEED MY SHEEP 

J ESUS said to Peter 
Speaking earnestly, 

“Simon, Son of Jonas, 

Lovest thou me?” 

Peter said to Jesus, 

Speaking reverently, 

“Yes, my Lord, thou knowest 
That I love thee.” 

Jesus said to Peter 
“Feed my lambs.” 

Jesus said to Peter 
Speaking solemnly, 

“Simon, Son of Jonas, 

Lovest thou me?” 

Peter was astonished 
Hearing this, but he 
Answered, “Lord, thou knowest 
That I love thee.” 


48 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Jesus said to Peter 
“Feed my Sheep.” 

Jesus said to Peter 
Speaking so that he 
Might retain his meaning 
To eternity— 

“Simon, Son of Jonas, 

Lovest thou me ? 

Lovest more than these?” 
Peter’s heart was grieved 
That the third time he 
Asked the selfsame question 
So persistently. 

Then he cried in anguish 
Deprecatingly, 

“Thou, who knowest all things, 
Knowest I love thee.” 

Jesus said to Peter 
“Feed my Sheep.” 

Scarcely of the suffering 
Of Gethsemane, 

Was the Savior thinking 
At the time when he 
Said to Simon Peter 
“Lovest thou me?” 

Christ, the Lord, was looking 
To the time to come 
When this Son of Jonas 
Soon should die in Rome 

Crucified. Would he 
Witness to the Gentiles 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


49 


Present and to be, 

“Thou, who knowest all things, 
Knowest I love thee?” 

Peter thrice denied him, 

Wept within an hour; 

Jesus thrice now tried him, 
Filled him with his power. 


AUNT SALLIE 

D ID you know my dear Aunt Sallie? 

Yes, for all good people did; 

She is sleeping in the valley, 

All her imperfections hid. 

When my mother gave a dinner 
She was there with glowing face, 

Always proved herself a winner ; 

Never threw off in the race. 

Auntie wore the finest dresses 
Yellow silk all trimmed with brown, 
Bought her jewelry at Kress’s— 

Paid the shining nickels down. 

Never would she ask for credit 
When she had such ready cash, 

Said she thought it wrong to medit- 
Ate on confidence so rash. 

Auntie was a cheerful giver 
To all causes she thought good, 
Though she often said her liver 
Seldom acted as it should, 


50 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Not a tune but what she knew it 
And she sang with open throat; 
Every line she beat you to it, 

Ended with a turned up note. 

She had quite a forceful manner 
And for quavers had a knack, 

She kept time with the piano 
Beating tattoos on my back. 

Auntie her own boat had paddled 
All her life, as I suppose, 

Though a blooming wart sat straddled 
On her rosy Roman nose. 

She for years was a believer, 

Kept the faith through every snare, 

But her peace, though like a river, 
Had some shallows here and there. 

For, though often on the summit, 
Sometimes she herself would scorn, 
When her snuff-box made her gum it 
After all her teeth were gone. 

Well, indeed, do I remember 
Making words to action suit, 

She remarked that in December 
Apple branches bore good fruit. 

At such times, I thought it bestial 
When she laid me on her knee, 
Without telescope celestial 
Showed a hundred stars to me. 

Her opinion was quite weighty 
On all controverted grounds, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


For she died approaching eighty 
Weighing plus two hundred pounds. 

The last year, her strength diminished 
Showed us that her race was run; 
When she died she left unfinished 
Everything she had not done. 

Auntie had great means for living 
As her neighbors all could see, 

But she had one great misgiving— 
She missed giving it to me. 


HYMN TO THE RISING SUN 

A WAKE, my eyes, and see 

The light that soon will rise; 

A new sublimity 

Each morning gilds the skies; 

Awake, awake, my eyes, 

The sun awakes to thee. 

Awake, my mind, awake, 

The flaming orb behold! 

Awake for beauty’s sake 
Which paints the disc of gold 
And lights the distant wold 
And through the clouds will break. 

Awake, my soul, awake, 

Awake, my soul, and sing; 

Thine honor is at stake! 

Awake with harp and bring 
A greeting to the King 
Who rises for thy sake. 


52 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


LIFE 


Lux est umbra Dei; Deus est Lumen luminis. 

Plato. 

Le silence eternel de ces espaces infinis m’effraie. 

Pascal. 


The Life was the Light of men. 


St. John. 


W E are the Essence of Divinity, 

Bright silhouettes reflecting unseen light 
Whose origin is elsewhere. 

All our life and symmetry 

Are the betrayal of a mighty Force 

Existing unseen and from hidden source. 

As arrows, we from darkness 
Speed through light to shade again 
And disappear. In earth or air 
We leave no trace that we have been 
Wayfarers through a wilderness 
Or loiterers in a flowery plain, 

Except, perhaps, a mossy pyramid 

Within whose dark receptacles are hid 

Cuneiforms or rotting papyrus 

That have survived the living, sentient dust; 

Or polished marble pillar with a date 

Or two, which now commemorate 

Some worthy action, some decree of fate; 

Or bas-relief, whose silent trumpets blare 
Paeans of victory, wailings of despair. 

And are we but the phantoms of a day 
Drifting from zone to zone, from pole to pole, 
And then return to airy nothingness? 

Are we but clouds that through the ether roll 
Endowed with power to bless, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


53 


Dissolving often in benevolence, 

Or, charged with currents of plenipotence, 

Fall in our wrath and empires sweep away? 

Ah, whence came we? What fecund breath 
Brooded the deep inanimate beneath, 

As in some holy shrine, 

A grand, potential energy 
By magic wand set free 
Sprang from the nescient nebulae 
Instinct with life divine? 

And where go we? Into the dark abyss 
Unfathomable, within whose caverns vast 
The centuries have drifted through the mist 
That has obscured the records of the past? 

Is all our busy life complex, supreme, 

With all its wonder and significance 
But the veiled fabric of an empty dream 
Idealized within a world of chance 
Without a regnant principle or star— 

Only a vain phantasmagoria? 

Seek not amid the dead and buried past 
The principle of life. Its sepulchers 
Are but the resting place of dust and tears, 

Where wearied hearts have found repose at last. 
Disturb not that repose, but let them rest 
Deep in oblivious sleep; they cannot tell 
What visions have illumined or distressed 
Nor whence the light that once upon them fell. 

Ask of the winds that blow where Neptune glides 
And lazy seas roll in voluptuousness 
On coral reefs; ask the verdant isles 
That, basking in perpetual summer smiles 


54 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Or hurling back the spray of angry tides, 

Are types of the eternal; ask the cloud 
Wafted by zephyrs as it comes to bless 
Or demon-ridden when it weaves the shroud; 

Ask of the storms that ride as conquerors 
Cyclonic; ask the breeze that fans the cheek 
Of infancy; ask the glittering stars 
That bless at birth or cast their omens bleak; 
Ask of the sea whose power man’s arm derides 
Or breaks on beach and cliff; oh, bid them speak 
For they may know where primal life abides. 

Ask the maternal sod 

Whose passionate tenderness 

Invites embrace of procreative god 

Of moisture, heat; whose wantonness 

With rich profusion generously fills 

Her wide and multifarious expanse 

With struggling offspring of the lowly clod, 

As if they were the cast-aways of chance. 

Ask her, for she upon the hills 

Radiant with jeweled dew and lustrous gold 

And in luxuriant valleys manifold 

Sent forth a brood more numerous than the sands 

Of all her seas and lands. 

Her mother breast supplied 
Food for the mighty horde 
That nascent love outpoured 
Through all her confines wide. 

Beseech her, for she knows 
Where hidden life began; 

Beseech, she may disclose 
The secret unto man. 

Ask of the world below 
Where rays of sunlight cannot go; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


55 


Where eyeless creatures wallow in the slime 

Of bottomless abyss 

Strewn with the wrecks of envious time. 

Or where with phosphorescent beam 
The ghastly caverns gleam, 

From dateless cycles old; 

Mid craggy peaks of glittering gold 
Amorphous denizens 
Awaken to life’s tragic dream 
And creep or crawl and hiss 
Through amber skulls of men. 

And thus from protoplastic norm 
Of chaos and of night 
Evolving its primordial form 
There may appear some light; 

Or else, some nautilus or whale 
Might tell to us life’s untold tale. 

Ask of the mighty monarch trees 
Whose heads the snow of centuries 
Has crowned, and where have beat 
Tempests of wind and sleet, 

Cascades of mist and rain 

Weaving the flowery carpet at their feet 

When summer comes again; 

Ask, for you may not ask in vain. 

Mute witnesses are they 
Of secrets that have passed away 
To the infinitude of silences, 

Whose ears are open to the symphonies 
Of burning sun and star. 

Of the vast life resplendent surely these 
Have caught the message from afar 
By lightning’s .flash, or moonlit melodies 
Of wave upon the shore, whose rhyme 
Reverberates the mysteries of time. 


56 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Or let the wild birds sing 
Which owe allegiance nor to priest nor king 
And which from realms where roses blow 
Have come on joyful wing, 

Or from the regions of the ice and snow. 
Perhaps their piercing eyes have been 
On mountains or in valleys green 
That revel in perpetual spring; 

The eagle from his eyrie high, 

Beneath the hedge the humble thrush, 

The skylark from the burnished sky, 

The humming bird in fragrant bush. 

Oh, bid them tell us as they go 

What we would give the world to know, 

As once the dove from Noah’s trembling hand 
Sent out to seek the land 
Belated came with olive-branch to say 
Life is near by—but far away. 


Ask of earth’s bridal flowers 

Which peep through snow, or wait the showers 

That bring the fuller life; the violet 

Beside the obscure pathway set 

Reflecting heaven’s blue; the rose 

Queenly and mirroring Alpine snows; 

Or the carnation like the blood 

That pours through flesh a crimson flood. 

They crown the grave where valor died, 

They charm the good and wise, 

They add new beauty to the bride, 

They soothe the widow’s sighs; 

Surely their beauty will declare 
Their fragrance will inspire 
Who built the primal altar where 
Life kindled into fire. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


57 


Oh, there is Life somewhere! 

Somewhere, beneath the all-encircling blue 
The life forever old, forever new, 

The life that does not end. The air 

The ocean and the hurrying rills 

Have seen it, but they will not tell us. True, 

We get glimpses of it, and it fills 

Our souls with beatific sense 

Of splendor unrevealed, as meteors 

That burst in the thick darkness, when the hills 

And circumjacent valleys glow 

With wonderfully wierd, fantastic show 

Of nature’s glory and omnipotence. 

Again, the inky darkness settles round 
As curtains shifted by demoniac art; 

We see its flashes, but we hear no sound. 
Majestic, wondrous, awful it appears 
As the vast silence of the distant spheres. 

The conscious soul unto itself is left, 

And, like some airy being unconfined, 

Dazzled by the supremely beautiful 
Spreads out its wings in realms impalpable 
Nor yearns again for what it leaves behind. 

The vision so illuminous has bereft 
It of all sensuousness, and the eye 
Glows to behold that spiritual form 
Which through all ages has defied, 

Elusive as a spectre in a storm, 

All effort to invade its secret sphere 
And whispers, as it vanishes—“Not here.” 

Oh, Life inscrutable! Thou art indeed 
The mystery of all mysteries; thy creed 
Is silence deep, supreme. We see 
Thy phenomena in earth, sea, air 
Endowed with magic forms ephemeral; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


58 

Visions of wondrous multiformity, 

Kaleidoscopic glories everywhere 

Through all the realms thy hurrying feet have trod; 

From mountain summit to the lowest clod 

Satiety for every craving sense 

In the vast round of being, all 

From the beginning to eternity 

Expressive of thine endless opulence, 

Thy gorgeous, trailing garments, but not Thee. 

We are the Essence of Divinity, 

Life, the reflection of an unseen Light; 

Without the Light no shadow can there be; 

Light is God’s shadow and there is no night. 

BAMPA 

O NCE, I was walking down the street 
Happy as though in wine, 

My thoughts were on a recent book— 
Chasing some vagrant line. 

From out a home, a wee tot ran 
As from a frightful wreck— 

“Oh, pease, sir, turn an hep bampa, 

For he is boke he neck!” 

Calling a surgeon, up I rushed 
Through vine-clad porch and door, 

And there a plaster grand-pa lay 
In twain upon the floor. 

I grabbed her in my arms and kissed 
Her glowing face and brow— 

“If oo’s a doctor, 00 mus’ cure 
My ’ittle bampa now!” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


59 


We put his head back in its place 
Secure with paste and thong 
And left the little golden-hair 
With bampa and her song. 

OUR DEAD 

F IVE years have passed since that bright April 
day 

When the young spring was bursting into life, 

We from our isolation turned away, 

When an inverted world with war was rife 
And cast our lot in an immortal strife. 

We did not stop to count the cost, nor ask 
What bounds would circumscribe a new-made world; 
We gave our gold and brain and blood; the task 
Was mightiest, but our flag unfurled 
Thrilled the world’s heart and smashed the tyrant’s 
mask. 

Forth rushed our sons with the Crusaders’ ire 
To pay to France the debt so long unpaid, 

Lest she in her extremity expire, 

Lest we already had too long delayed, 

Though Wilson led and all the nation prayed. 

Their glory cannot fail while patriot eyes 
Trace through the centuries what love has done, 
Till hearts shall cease to throb at sacrifice 
And honor fail to crown what valor won, 

Or night obliterate the shining sun. 

And when the spirits of our deathless dead 
Gather in ghostly halls to celebrate 


6o 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


The deeds of demigods by heroes led, 

Our khaki host assembled will relate 

How they have triumphed o’er imperious fate. 

And they will live in history and song 
Victorious actors upon Honor’s stage 
And grateful pens and tearful eyes prolong 
Their glory, gilding with unstinted page, 

And those who read reflect their noble rage. 

For in their hearts they bore again the light 
The Pilgrims bore across the unknown sea, 

The dauntless courage to maintain the right 
At Chateau Thierry and at Cantigny, 

As did the Greeks at old Thermopylae. 

Peace to their ashes, wheresoe’er they lie 
On mountain, glen, in forest, plain or sea; 
Their virtuous fame Time’s ravages defy, 

Who gave their all that Europe might be free 
To taste with *us the sweets of liberty. 

As they have served, we covet all to serve, 

As they have died, so covet we to die, 

Nor from the service of mankind to swerve 
Though all earth’s crowns were given to deny; 
And this their glory through eternity. 

BROTHERHOOD 

A LL the world’s a brotherhood 
Of mankind; 

All the bad and all the good 

You will find 

Are not very far apart 


SOUTHERN POEMS 61 

If you only knew the heart, 

And the mind. 

Greatest curse is ignorance 
Everywhere ; 

If your neighbor had a chance 
To declare 

What on his part he may think 
It might bring you to the brink 
Of despair. 

Do not think that all are bad 
That seem so; 

May be that your neighbor had 
Cause to do 

What to you seems very small, 

For you may not now know all 
You might know. 

Have you wronged your truest friend? 

Such may be ; 

Hasten now to make amend, 

Maybe he 

Yearns to take you by the hand 
And will gladly understand ; 

Go and see. 

Brother, life is far too short 
To delay 

Or to act on mere report 
By the way; 

To the neighbor next to you 
Do as he to you should do; 

Act today. 

Thus your heart will beat anew 
With a thrill 


62 SOUTHERN POEMS 

That it has not known, and you 
Then will fill 

All the happy day with song 
And its melody prolong 
Like a rill. 


IF 

I F you are born of blood that is not tarnished 
By generations of enfeebling vice; 

If you have kept your ruddy life unvarnished, 

Thus covering an errant nature twice; 

If you have thought and yet in all your thinking 
Have wandered not into forbidden path; 

If you have looked at problems without blinking 
When blinking brings a rueful aftermath; 

If you have walked in virtue’s way of living 
Although, at times you had to walk alone; 

If you gave service without pride in giving 
Nor thought of frailties you could thus atone; 

If you have followed in the path of duty 
Though oftentimes it promised no reward; 

If you have sought the soul’s sublimer beauty, 
And still sought on, when seeking was so hard; 

If you have tried to make their burdens lighter 
When weary souls have seemed to miss the mark; 

If when, they failed, you bade them hold the tighter, 
Or, what is better, led them from the dark; 

If you have wrought, while others hesitated, 

Or, when your motives were misunderstood; 

If holding peace, your silence was berated, 

And only evil came where you meant good; 

If you have forward pressed each day, well knowing 
Your only object was to win the race; 

If you have failed, your effort plainly showing 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


63 


That they who fail are worthy of all praise; 

If when you reach the goal, some one before you 
Has won the prize and plaudits with a whirl, 
Remember that bright skies are bending o’er you, 
And what is more, You are an Angel-girl. 

ARMAGEDDON 
(Written Sept. 1914) 

T HE trumpet-call is sounding from the Danube 
to the Rhine, 

Von Moltke hurls his legions to the French or Rus¬ 
sian line, 

From Gumbinnen to Munich, from Kronstadt to 
Cologne 

Two warlords issue orders, they want this war 
alone. 

On verdant Vosgian Mountains are beacon-fires at 
night, 

The frowning guns of Konisberg now glisten in the 
light; 

From* Dantzig round to Bremen, past Schleswig and 
Holstein 

His soldiers drink the Kaiser’s health in draughts 
of Rhenish wine. 

From Lemberg to Vienna, from Prague to Buda¬ 
pest 

The screaming fife and roaring drum disturb the 
midnight rest, 

And marching men and cannon and caissons to the 
east 

Roll like a host of drunkards to bacchanalian feast. 


64 SOUTHERN POEMS 

’Tis well that they confess to heaven before the 
fray begins, 

Unless they wish with Russian blood to wash away 
their sins, 

For Czech and Magyar soon will meet the Serb 
despising pain 

And richer far will be the soil of green Galicia’s 
plain. 

Ye Sisters of the Cloister wherever you may be, 

In supplication lift your hearts, and bend the sup¬ 
pliant knee 

For, from this Armageddon’s tumultuous carnage 
line, 

Two nations will be mourning from Danube to the 
Rhine. 

Answer, Francis Joseph, do you rule by God’s 
grace? 

Think of Carolyn’s curses on you and on your race! 

Remember Maximilian and good Elizabeth 

And Konigratz and Ferdinand and Rudolph’s 
bloody death. 

Be mindful, William, of the pride that goes before 
a fall, 

Lest German blood may fructify the vineclad hills 
of Gaul; 

Remember that a deep revenge lies dormant by the 
Seine, 

Behold the shrouded statues there of Alsace and 
Lorraine. 

Forget not what your grandsire said, “Keep friend¬ 
ship with the Czar,” 

Lest angry Romanoff join flag with Lilies of Na¬ 
varre 


SOUTHERN POEMS 65 

And pouring forth from Astrakhan and fire-swept 
Moscow 

His guns may pound to dust the walls of Posen and 
Breslau. 

What is a Scrap of Paper? The royal word they 
plead, 

And they who make the answer met John at Run- 
nymede; 

They wrote the Magna Carta, wherein are well de¬ 
fined 

The bounds where kingly power must stop, the 
rights of all mankind. 

Proud Hohenzollern, keep your word! Lift not 
the hostile lance 

Nor rush your gallant Uhlans through fair Belgium 
into France; 

Beyond the Channel lies a power whose Lions roar 
in wrath 

And led by French and Kitchener will crouch across 
your path. 

Those Lions fought with Bliicher once at fated 
Waterloo 

And what they did for Wellington they yet again 
will do, 

For they are rooted to the soil they set their feet 
upon 

And hell will break loose in your face at Ypres and 
at Peronne. 

Oh, Kings, ’tis Armageddon. The Hand upon the 
Wall 

In mystic words of blood and fire proclaim your 
final fall, 


66 SOUTHERN POEMS 

When Hohenzollern, Hapsburg immersed in hu¬ 
man blood 

Will hear man’s malediction and feel the wrath of 
God. 

There is a God on high that rules the destinies of 
men, 

Who baffled oft in his designs returns to them 
again; 

For law and righteousness uphold the mandates of 
his will 

And centuries are but a day those mandates to ful- 


THE COMET 

F AR out beyond the Pleiades 
Far past Orion’s light, 

An errant thing by God’s decrees 
Flamed forth in lustre bright. 

She fled in glory past the stars 
Her trailing garments white 
Extending back in lucent bars 
Through ebon gates of night. 

And as she sped with glowing face 
She saw new stars arise, 

Those outpost sentinels of space 
In boundaries of the skies. 

And everywhere she felt no fear 
Nor rival by the way, 

Though suns would rise and disappear 
As she approached the Day. ' 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


67 


And on she passed beyond the bound 
Where suns and systems roll 
To where the primal Light is found 
Beyond creation’s goal. 

TO MY WIFE 

W E’VE started out in life, my dear, 
For better or for worse 
And toils and trials rife, my dear, 
Will constitute our course. 

But as we forward press, my dear, 
Through daily good and ill, 

We’ll do our very best, my dear, 

Each duty to fulfill. 

And if grief come to us, my dear, 

And sorrow by the way, 

We’ll try again and trust, my dear, 
And wait for fairer day. 

Though some days will be sad, my dear, 
Some surely will be bright, 

For all cannot be bad, my dear, 

If we do what is right. 

And if we have our health, my dear, 

And labor as we go, 

We shall not want for wealth, my dear, 
Whatever wind may blow. 

And if we try to live, my dear, 

As honest people should 

We’ll have our mite to give, my dear, 

In helping to do good. 


68 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Thus, we shall earn our rest, my dear, 
And this will be our pride 
That some one has been blest, my dear, 
That we have lived and died. 


THE SACRIFICE 
(Dedicated to the American Legion) 

if 1 'WAS years ago, one fine June morn 
■*- In a Southern city two boys were born, * 
One in a home of princely wealth, 

One whose inheritance was health. 

They both grew up as normal boys 
From the earlier days of sports and noise, 

Yet more sedate each year they grew 
As more of life and books they knew. 

But now came the time to choose a trade— 
Nay, one already a choice had made; 

But both must go to increase the store 
Of knowledge that they must have before 
They enter the world of varying cults 
To join in the din of its tumults. 

The way was easy for one; not so 
For the other one, for should he go 
He had no money his bills to pay, 

He must do chores and work his way. 

For there’s always a way, if a boy wants to 
Though money be scarce and friends be few. 

One had cards to fraternity halls 
And rode with debutantes to balls, 

The other a garret he called his den 

And his food was not what it should have been; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


69 


One a morning headache had, 

Poverty the other this forbade. 

And thus at the end of their college days 
Each won his own peculiar praise, 

One from the lips of made-up misses, 

The other a wrinkled mother’s kisses; 

One to a bank where work was light, 

The other to hard work day and night. 

The banker’s daughter walked down the street 
And whom but the lawyer should she meet? 

They chatted pleasantly for a while— 

(Be careful, dear, of the lawyer’s smile!) 
“Pardon, my client is waiting, I 
Must for the present say goodbye.” 

But on the courthouse steps he turned:— 

“I wish the court were now adjourned;” 

She said as she raised her parasol, 

“Were I that client—fol-de-rol.” 

That night while writing a brief, he said 
“What is the matter with my head?” 

For the lawyer forgot two winsome eyes 
That peeped through veil and such disguise; 

She sang to friends, and every word 
Echoed the soul of the mocking-bird. 

Happy, indeed, the chosen few 
To whom the dreams of love come true. 

Two weeks later they met again, 

The clouds were dark and’rain, rain, rain, 

She stepped to a chum’s across the street 
But the ground gave way beneath her feet 
And she cried aloud despite her charms— 

But she found herself in the lawyer’s arms. 


70 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Week after week, these lovers met, 

Thanksgiving Day for the wedding set 
And friends of both spoke far and wide 
Of the banker’s daughter the lawyer’s bride. 

Hark! What is this the headlines say? 

“GERMANY FLOUTS THE U. S. A ! 

They sink our ships upon the sea, 

And now there’s war with Germany!” 

The lawyer reading these words forgot 
He wasn’t a god, but a patriot. 

He reached the street with hat in hand 
And in a voice born to command:— 

Three cheers for Wilson, men, three cheers! 
The President calls for volunteers! 

Hands up, boys! Who’ll go with me 
And the Stars and Stripes to Germany?” 

A thousand hands were thrust on high, 

A thousand voices thundered “I—I!” 

A woman sat in a limousine 
Transformed by the glamor of the scene; 

She opened the door and out she sprang 
While cheers against the court-house rang, 

A flag in each hand to honor true, 

One with Grant’s Red, White and Blue, 

And one—a flag from the Apple-tree 
Her grandfather carried for Robert Lee! 

The wind blew through her Saxon hair 

And it waved with the flags she was waving there; 

ahe stood by the lawyer and loudly cried: 

1 d father serve with him than be his bride! 

And if there’s a place as a nurse for me 
111 go with his regiment over the sea.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


7 i 


The lawyer could not believe his eyes 
So great his wonder and his surprise, 

But he did not think it improper now 
To bend and kiss her radiant brow; 

And a thousand voices cried, “Well done! 

God keep you both and make you one!” 

Be careful, friends, there’s many a slip 
’Twixt wedding-day and the touch of a lip 
And many a love that is heaven today 
Tomorrow stern fate may sweep away. 

The woman wept but not with grief, 

And he wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, 
Then his own eyes with tear-drops dim 
With the same kerchief she’d given to him. 

And he seated her in the limousine 
With two flags fluttering, she between. 

That ’kerchief here, henceforth he wore 
Perfumed with the tears of love it bore. 

The German lines extended east 
And west for thirty miles, at least, 

And the doughboys lay their lines before; 

The Marne and the Meuse they’ll soon cross o’er. 

’Twas night, the Colonel walked his lines 
That stretched through rock-pits, blazing pines, 
And pointed his sword as he whispered low 
“Tomorrow at six o’er the top we go”; 

“We will not come back,” (a voice) ; “until 
We get the goat of Kaiser Bill!” 

Thoughtless, perhaps, the gibe or joke 
The last the doughboy every spoke; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


72 

Tomorrow, though handsome, young and brave, 
Drum, trumpet, Taps—and a soldier’s grave. 

But now the zero hour has come, 

Not with the ominous roar of drum; 

The soldier looks at the watch on his wrist 
And thinks of her whose lips he kissed; 

In silence upward he turns his eye 
And hell breaks loose in the inky sky. 

The cannon boom with murderous ire 
And the barrage falls in curtain of fire:— 

“Today, oh, God, if Thou art forgot, 

In love and mercy, forget me not!” 

Now is the time for a Titan’s deeds— 

“Boy’s follow where your Colonel leads!” 1 
With clutch of a gun and a bayonet, 

The flash of an eye, and a stern jaw set, 

With thoughts that soldiers only know, 

A scramble—and over the top they go! 

Then clash of steel and roar of guns, 

Junker super-men and our Yankee sons! 

Theirs steeped in the cults of Germany, 

Ours fighting for human liberty, 

That the world might be safe for Democracy. 

The German works are level ground, 

The dead and dying piled around; 

The sunlight pierces the fetid air— 

Old Glory waves in triumph there. 

The dead are left to themselves, surprise 
Reflected now from glassy eyes, 

1 Captain W. H. W. Smith (R. R. R.), Dallas, Texas, tells me 
that on receiving his orders at San Juan Hill to charge, Colonel 
Roosevelt waved his sword over his head and cried, “Boys, follow 
where your Colonel leads.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


73 


But some have the gentle, dreamy haze 
They had in early boyhood’s days; 

The peace of death in every breast, 

They are marching now to the silent West. 

The wounded are lying everywhere, 

Some writhing here, some dying there, 
Some cursing war, some moaning fate, 

All call for water, with many too late. 

The nurses serve with tenderest care 
Binding a wound or breathing a prayer; 

A message is sent to mother dear 
“Tell her in death I thought of her”; 

To another far o’er the beautiful sea 
“I hoped, I prayed, but it can not be.” 

The surgeon probes a gaping wound, 

A piece of a bayonet is found; 

He breathes, but speechless for a while, 
Then gazes at the nurse—a smile. 

She kneels beside his cot—a word, 

“Call in the Chaplain,” all she heard. 

He takes her loving hand in his, 

Life merging into death’s mysteries; 

“Ye twain are one,” the Chaplain said, 
The nurse embraced the Colonel dead. 

Then spread that kerchief o’er his face 
And calmly rose and left the place. 

In his tent, near him, she knelt in prayer, 
God’s pitying angels hovering there, 

Then closed her eyes as she lay on his cot, 
And war and its sorrows were soon forgot; 
Love triumphed, and the Colonel’s wife 
Entered with him Eternal Life. 


74 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


They buried them both at close of day, 

The wife beside.her husband lay, 

The banker’s daughter, the lawyer true; 
Above them floats the Red, White and Blue. 
Love’s loyal Sacrifice the test; 

They died for u%, in France they rest. 

CONFESSION 

G OD of the Nations, in whose name 
Our fathers braved the angry sea, 
Despised the fagot and the flame 
To build new altars unto Thee, 
Almighty, uncreated One, 

To Thee we bow, to Thee a,lone. 

We take no pride in all our deeds, 

Too often they have been unjust; 

Nor in the jargon of our creeds 
With loss of simple faith and trust. 

This we bewail before thy throne 
And bow to Thee, to Thee alone. 

Dare we to raise our eyes to Thee, 

We, who are rich in lands and gold? 
May we yet bend the suppliant knee 
And all our poverty unfold? 

May we yet for our sins atone 
And bow to Thee, to Thee alone? 

Thy covenant of grace restore 
Nor smite our lintels with thy rod, 

Rule Thou our land from shore to shore 
Dwell in us, oh our fathers’ God. 

Unto all ages, Lord make known 
We bow to Thee, to Thee alone. 


COMRADES IN ARMS 


=fc 


?Mr- 

i. Lads 

C 

of 

— m — 

u 

the 

Le - gion, 

: * 

true 

3E 

to 

your 

breed 

4=i 

- ing, 

2. Green 

be 

the 

grass that 

grows 

o’er 

you 

sleep 

- ing, 

3. Rest, 

oh 

ye 

Com - rades, 

all 

slack 

- ers 

sham 

- ing, 



Far from the land where your an - ces - tors dwell, 

Light be the sod and gen - tie the swell, 

Rest in the land where for free - dom you fell, 



, Up "t" 

No - bly you sought France bro - ken and bleed - ing, Brave - ly you 
Soft winds that whis - per of moth-ers weep - ing,Ne’er shall the 
Hon - or and val - or glo - ry pro-claim - ing, Com- rades in 

it. N 



fought and vie - to - ri - ous - ly fell. Com - rades in arms, fare 
trump - et your slum - ber dis - pel. 

ve bid you fare-well. 


arms, 



well, ^fare^ well,) Com-rades in arms, fare-well, (fare - well.) 



















































































































7 6 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


THE SKUNK AND THE ’POSSUM 
TIE skunk and the ’possum were neighbors, 



’tis said 

Where a wood near a swift rivulet 
Shut out the light of the sky overhead 
Where vines and the undergrowth met. 

And, then, as it happens with friends among men, 

Each tried to express with a word 

His thought of the other in anger, and then, 

They resented the malice they heard. 

One word brought another, and soon, as it seemed, 
A battle to death must be fought; 

Their claws were distended, their angry eyes 
gleamed 

For a contest the skunk only sought. 

For he cried “You’re a coward, you’re in a fright,” 
With his breath, through his lips, as if lids; 

The ’Possum said, “No, I dread not a fight, 

But prudence my fighting forbids.” 


LUCINDA 


H AVE you e’er seen Lucinda dear, 
The Angel of the prairie? 

She rides her broncho without fear 
And rules him like a fairy. 

The finest girl in all the West, 
Without exaggerating; 

She is the one I love the best 
And she’s the one that’s waiting. 

She rides the ranges like a man 
Her golden tresses whirling 
And you may beat her if you can 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


77 


The whizzing lasso hurling. 

The finest girl in all the West, 

A simple fact I’m stating; 

She is the one I love the best 
And she’s the one that’s waiting. 

The cayote fleeing o’er the plain 
Where many a rattler hisses, 

She bores him through without a pain, 
Lucinda never misses. 

The finest girl in all the West, 

I’m not equivocating; 

She is the one I love the best 
And she’s the one that’s waiting. 

The storm-cloud never gets too dark, 
When cattle are stampeding, 

She finds them by the lightning’s spark 
And brings them to their feeding. 

The finest girl in all the West 
One hundred is her rating; 

She is the one I love the best 
And she’s the one that’s waiting. 

One time, when Piute Bill was sick, 

She was the first to nurse him; 

She flew and got the doctor quick, 

But Bill just lived to curse him. 

The finest girl in all the West, 

Her cloak his shroud creating; 

She is the one I love the best 
And she’s the one that’s waiting. 

Sometimes she kindles the campfire 
And gets her face all sooty; 

’Tis then I want to sit right by her 


78 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


For then she is a beauty. 

The finest girl in all the West, 

(This is no lover’s prating) 

She is the one I love the best 
And she’s the one that’s waiting. 

The best of biscuit she can make, 

The quail which she is frying— 

Oh, let me go for ’„Cinda’s sake, 

For ’Cinda I am dying. 

The finest girl in all the West, 

My heart is palpitating; 

She is the one I love the best— 

She shall not long be waiting. 

UNITED 

L ET us go, Love, for here is the carriage, 
The carriage to bear us away 
To the happiness, Dear, of our marriage, 

Our marriage no longer delay. 

How brilliant, my Love, is the altar, 

The altar with flowers upon, 

Come, let us not one moment falter, 

Not falter till we are made one. 

Tonight, Love, the stars will be gleaming, 

Be gleaming in heaven above, 

Tonight, Dear, will bless all our dreaming, 
Our dreaming of passionate love. 

Tonight, Love, the bells will be ringing, 

Be ringing our union to bless, 

Tonight, Dear, our hearts will be singing, 

Be singing in love’s wilderness. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


79 


Behold, at the altar they’re bowing, 

Are bowing their faith to confess, 

And each to the other is vowing, 

Is vowing with love’s tenderness. 

Then on through the shadows go whirling, 
Go whirling o’er hillock and stream, 

And night all its glories unfurling, 
Unfurling through love’s magic dream. 

“Tomorrow, when daylight has ended, 

In our own home we will be”— 

In a moment, their journey is ended, 

Their own home they never will see. 

Oh, horror! The bridge is on fire, 
Headlong through the chasm they go; 

She is dead now and he is dying by her; 
Thus ended their dreaming. Why so? 

One grave and one coffin incloses 
Their arms joined in death’s long embrace; 
And the springtime ablaze with its roses 
Pours perfume and light on their face. 

Two loving hearts rest now together, 
Together beneath the green sod; 

But tell me, I pray you, tell whether 
Their spirits are resting in God. 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN 

D EAR Mary, ’twas a fateful day, 

That cool, autumnal eve, 

When we had nothing more to say 
And nothing to receive. 


8 o 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


The past was rich with jeweled hours 
Which memory held secure 
Like dewdrops upon withered flowers 
With fragrance rich and pure. 

And yet we cast the flowers away 
And broke the scented bowl, 

Each yearning just one word to say, 

One word—one heart, one soul. 

And just to say that unsaid word 
My life again I’d live, 

By ecstasy of sorrow stirred 
We both might cry “Forgive!” 

But still, we left that word unsaid 
And sat with longing eyes 
Until the hastening sun had sped 
Adown the darkening skies. 

And when the dreaded word Goodbye 
Two icy hands deplore, 

We parted, Mary, you and I, 

To meet on earth no more. 

Could I recall but for one day 
The years forever fled, 

All other joys would tribute pay 
To say that word unsaid. 

Oh! I have paid that stubborn debt 
Ten thousand times, I know, 

But it remains uncancelled yet 
And will be ’till I go 

To where a holier light will shine 
Upon our darkened day, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And all regrets of yours and mine, 

Mary, swept away. 

Long years I’ve struggled on distressed 
And never called thee mine, 

But death has brought thee sweetest rest 
And love made thee divine. 

Farewell, farewell! ’Tis vain to seek 
Surcease from moistening eyes, 

’Till I that unsaid word shall speak 
To thee in Paradise. 


THE TOMB OF GENERAL GRANT 

A ROUND me everywhere I saw 
The monuments of man, 

Beneath me death’s eternal law 
The same since time began. 

The mightiest of the granite rocks 
Yields to the wind and wave, 

So, fate to Grant’s repeated shocks 
The final triumph gave. 

Great Captain, born to high command, 

Thy name will ever be 

Linked with the noblest of our land, 

With Lincoln and with Lee. 

Within the dark sarcophagus 
He rests secure in fame 
Returning to the mortal dust 
Whence he immortal came. 


SACRAMENTAL HYMN 

F. E. B. F. E. Butler 



1. Oh Lord, our God, how sweet the hour, When 

2. I feel the trans - ports of thy grace Sweep 

3. Oh come, Thou blest, soul search - ing Word, With 

4. E - ter - nal Love, a - bide with me, All 




























































































SOUTHERN POEMS 


83 


GREECE IMMORTAL 
(Written at the beginning of the First Balkan 
War.) 

F OUR hundred years and^more ago 
The Cross went trailing in the dust, 

The Crescent with fanatic glow 
Inspired the Moslem’s hate and lust, 

The Turks like demons from below 
Came pouring o’er the Bosphorus. 

Where Clio saw her earliest day 
Or Jason sped the waves along, 

Where Homer sang his epic lay 
And Agamemnon led his throng, 

The Turk has held imperious sway, 

The tyrant Turk so foully wrong. 

Where Saint Sophia’s gilded tower 
Looks o’er the dark and deep Euxine; 

Where clouds from mountain summits lower 
And rivers bathe eternal green, 

The bloody Turk until this hour 
Has held what once was Byzantine. 

Impelled by hate for many a year 
The Turk the sacred Name despised 
And murder without shame or fear 
Has reigned unpunished, undisguised; 

Nor heeded he the prayer or tear 
From maiden lips or Christian eyes. 

He heeds no warning, hears no cry, 

Upheld by hands beyond the sea, 

Nor to Belgrade makes reply 


84 SOUTHERN POEMS 

Nor fears the wrath of Cetinje, 

Nor towards Sophia turns his eye 
And scorns to hear Athena’s plea. 

But lo! the day of wrath has come 
And from the mountain and the plain 
There swells the sound of battle-drum, 
The patriot cannon boom again; 

The hurrying Turk with terror dumb 
Flees to his circled forts in vain. 

The morning opens with the roar 
Of thrice a hundred thousand guns; 

The Balkans shake from shore to shore 
Beneath the fury of her sons 
Who soon in wrath will overthrow 
The offspring of degenerate Huns. 

Thrice armed because in right they are, 
Thrice strong because they courage have; 
Nor will they halt till Marmora 
Reflect their triumph from her wave, 

And craggy old Salonica 
No longer crouch a Moslem slave. 

Lift not a hand the sword to stay 
Nor may a patriot lag or shirk; 

Lift not a voice except to pray 
That God may speed the glorious work; 
Lift heart and hand to bless the day 
That brings to nought the naughty Turk. 

Rejoice oh, land of modern Greece 
And bask beneath the conquering sun 
That shone upon Themistocles 
When Salamis her crown had won; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


85 


Thy glory by Miltiades 
Was not eclipsed at Marathon. 

For, from those channels where the ships 
Of boasting Persia found their tomb, 
Where dark-eyed beauties to their lips 
Raised goblets that assuaged their doom, 
The bloody Crescent in eclipse 
Will see the Cross in triumph come. 

And once again the heroes’ dust 
Of Phataea and Thermopylae, 

Which earth now holds in sacred trust, 
Will rise to make their children free; 

The gods from snowy Olmypus 
Drive the barbarians o’er the sea. 

And o’er those heights whose light is gone 
The car of Phoebus will arise; 

The glories of the Parthenon 
Be cynosure of human eyes 
And from the founts of Helicon 
The Muses flit through rosy skies. 

Again the voice of Socrates 
Will plead for virtue not for gold; 
The mighty-hearted Pericles 
The miracles of mind unfold; 

The thunders of Demosthenes 
Fright tyrants as in days of old. 

Once more the marble lips will seek 
A voice as by Praxiteles; 

Again the ghostly forms will speak 
As spoke they to Euripides, 

Ere genius fled the conquering Greek 
For home beyond Hesperian seas. 


86 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And bounding past each hazy shore 
Whose noisy ripples never cease, 

As in the old Jasonic lore 
Shall come the argosies of peace; 

Their warfare and their triumphs o’er, 
Shall bloom again the Isles of Greece. 

And on each olive-scented isle 
Whose maidens now in grief are mute 
Her lovers will their love beguile 
With sound of castanet and lute: 

The soldier tell with tear and smile 
How died the veteran and recruit. 

The blest, prophetic day will come 
When peace will spread her snowy wings 
Above the humble peasant’s home 
As o’er the palaces of kings, 

And labor make her islands bloom 
And justice hush their bickerings. 

Then let us crown the amphora 
And drink her health in Samian wine 
And spread the joyful song afar 
That in the sky again will shine 
The light of that all-glorious star, 

Of Greece Immortal, Greece Divine! 

AT THE CLUB 

U PPER-TENDOM for a week 
Has been all agog 
Craning envious necks to seek 
In the catalogue 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


87 


Mothers with ambitious views 
Scan the daily page, 

Read Society’s good news 
Whom the Jacks engage, 

And with wonderment enthuse— 
Or explode in rage. 

Then the wheels of vanity 
Go rolling down the street, 

The gabbling of urbanity 
Where fools and fashion meet, 
The tittering of inanity 
With leering accents sweet. 

Tell it not in Askalon, 

Whisper not in Gath; 

When this carnival is done, 

Day will find her path 
Strewn with many a skeleton 
For a father’s wrath. 

In the brilliant hall above 
Brighter than the day 
With entrancing songs of love 
Venus will hold sway, 

Lust will all her minions move, 
Hell will be to play. 

By Calypso’s nymphs the air 
Throbs with merry strain, 
Bacchus reigning everywhere 
Glowing in champagne; 

Virtuous maiden, oh, beware 
For thy heart and brain! 

In the dance she floats around 
Like a bird in space, 


88 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

But too oft his feet are found 
In forbidden place; 

Swayed by low, voluptuous sound 
Blushes burn her face. 

Ah! She needs the midnight air, 
WB1 she promenade? 

Listens to seductive prayer 
That false lips have made, 

Knew not who she was, or where, 
When she was betrayed. 

Soon the old-time Christian home 
She cannot abide, 

Leaves its sacredness to roam 
With the scarlet tide; 

Of the Jolly Jacks will some 
Now for her provide? 

Faded all her maiden bloom, 
Perished all her pride, 

On a plank in a back room 
Dark eyes staring wide, 

What Adonis now will come 
For the suicide? 

THE BLUE-BIRD 

YXJTHEN I was but a barefoot boy 
* ? Passing the road one day, 

A blue-bird lit upon a gate 
Not very far away. 

Her nest was in a post hard by 
Her mate, sat on a limb 
And happily he sang to her 
And happy she to him. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


89 


But in an evil moment, I 
Threw something at the bird; 

She fell in death beyond the gate 
And not a muscle stirred. 

I did not envy her the light 
Of her brief, happy day 
Nor wish to show my bounding life 
By taking hers away. 

In doing this, I only did 
What thoughtless boys will do, 

Nor had I ever thought to harm 
That little bird so blue. 

How often have I wished that I 
That missile could recall, 

Though He, who sees the sparrow’s death, 
Saw, too the blue-bird’s fall. 

The stroke hurt not the little bird, 

I only felt the pain; 

But, if her death caused me to think, 

She did not die in vain. 

For thee I write these simple lines, 
Grieving that they are true, 

In memory^ of thy wanton death, 

Sweet little bird, so blue. 


DAD McRAY 

W HEN I was in Kentucky last I met with Dad 
McRay 

Six feet and six at eighty-five but neither stooped 
nor gray, 


9 o 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


As active as a catamount, sure-footed as a hound, 

For in the arts of simple life completeness he had 
found. 

In youth he knew the mountain streams and loved 
them every one, 

The trout-holes and the waterfalls were partners of 
his fun; 

He knew the place where fed the deer, the ponds 
where ducks would light, 

And when the dogwoods blossomed out where gob- 
lers perched at night. 

He knew the name of every tree, the song of every 
bird, 

The cry of every prowling beast when from his 
lair he stirred; 

And when the lightning’s awful glare foretold the 
brimming rill, 

He felt secure beneath the rock and thought of 
“Peace, be still.” 

He had not loved to go to school, he said it made 
him sick 

To learn from a professor how to put hay in a 
rick; 

He did not care for money, nor did he wish to 
know 

Why six goes into thirty six or two times two are 
four. 

And so he drifted out alone with dogs and poles 
and gun 

And scarcely knew when winter came or set the 
summer sun; 

He knew he loved the craggy peaks, the valleys in 
between, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 91 

The alder, wildrose, chestnut, ash and pine forever 
green. 

He had a simple mountain home, a cabin with a 
latch, 

A little field that raised his bread, a big tobacco 
patch, 

And six good brier roots he had, a few home-made 
cigars, 

A box to keep his flour in and honey in some jars. 

A cook-stove? No, a pot or two, a skillet on the 
coals, 

Some plow-shares that his daddy used held up the 
blazing poles, 

A coffee pot as black as night but inside clean and 
sweet, 

A creaky box or two, a bench, a chair—the strang¬ 
er’s seat. 

He did not need a polished floor, the ground was 
good enough, 

Nor did he lock the robbers out, they did not want 
his stuff; 

For every hopeless down and out found provender 
and cheer, 

A welcome and a friendly grip and “Glad that you 
are here.” 

Old Dad was a hard drinker, but always voted 
“Dry,” 

No flunkey with a flagon of sherbet ice and rye; 

A jug of Jersey buttermilk or a longhandled gourd 

He isoused two feet into the ale that from the 
mountain poured. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


92 

And when the summer heat came on he sought the 
orphanage 

To get a wagon-load of “Kids” and others to en- 
gage; 

Medicine? The best that nature makes, fresh air 
and exercise, 

Spring-water, swimming, fruit and fish—red cheeks 
and roguish eyes. 

One time a braggart drifted in, Dad did not ask his 
name, 

He did not care a picayune for family or fame; 

He said while listening to him boasting of what he 
had got 

“I wouldn’t give that yaller dog for you and the 
whole lot.” 

Into his cabin often came beggars or millionaires, 

Men galled by torturing memories or hearts de¬ 
pressed by cares, 

Men opulent with wealth and power but burdened 
with regret, 

Whose shame or grief or blighted love they never 
could forget. 

The savory venison he stewed, the biscuit that he 
made, 

The brew within that coffee-pot had many a sigh 
allayed, 

And fugitives from justice sat before the fire with 
him 

And ate and drank and joked and laughed until 
their eyes would swim. 

And now Dad stands upon the bench and takes a 
basket down 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


93 

From a loft overhead and soon a woolen cloth un¬ 
wound, 

And then the golden twists appeared, Kentucky’s 
fragrant weed, 

That floats bad memories away from hearts that 
ache and bleed. 

And when the night had passed away and morning 
light had come 

The stranger hummed an old time tune of peace 
and love and home 

And, looking through the firs and pines up into heav¬ 
en’s blue, 

He felt though in a world of sin some men and 
God are true. 

The years have swept his youth away, he moves 
more slowly now 

And honor sets her noble seal upon his manly 
brow; 

He walks serenely toward the west where sinks his 
latest sun; 

What a philosophy of life ! Friend, kindly pass it on. 


THE CHIMES 


’npIS time 
A For the chime 
And the cadence in rhyme 
Of the dear old cathedral’s soft bells, 
When music in bell-ringing wells; 

On land and on ocean 
The air in commotion 
To joyous reflection impels; 


94 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


How stirred is the soul 

Under music’s control 

And longs in its heaven to dwell. 

How sweet 

When we meet 

In the thick-crowded street, 

To hear their soft ringing, ding-dong, 
Sweet memories bringing, ding-dong, 

And through the far distance 
To feel the assistance 
Of our dear departed so long, 

It makes us light-hearted, ding-dong, 
Ding-ding-dong, ding-ding-dong, ding-dong. 

How dear 

With no fear 

When the angels so near 

Their message are bringing, ding-dong, 

With jubilant singing, ding-dong, 

And our hearts yearning 
Their message returning 
Victorious shouting prolong; 

We give up our doubting for isong. 
Ding-ding-dong, ding-dang-ding-dong. 

Oh, how we rejoice at such times 
And mingle our voice with their chimes! 
Ding, ding-dong, ding-dang-ding-dong, 
Ding-dong, ding-dong. 

How blest, 

When distressed 

And dismayed with unrest, 

We lay all our burdens aside, 

Our burdens of sin and of pride, 

And prostrate or kneeling 
For mercy appealing, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

God whispers, “No longer do wrong, 

Behold, 1 come quickly, be strong,” 

And the bells his sweet promise prolong. 

Ding, ding-dong, ding-a-ling, ding-a-long, 
Ding-a-ling-dang-ding-ding-dang, ding-dong. 

How weary 
And teary 

The dark days and dreary, 

When all is distressing and wrong, 

When there is no blessing in song, 

When dark clouds above us 

Say God does not love us 

And life but the sound of a gong, 

Or a dream with no lute or a song 
A pounding, resounding dong-dong, 

A moaning, monotoning dong-dong, 

A grieving, deceiving dong-dong, 

Dong-dong, d-6-n-g, d-6-n-g. 

At night 

In the light 

Of the altar so bright 

None holier or sweeter, ding-dong, 

When the groom comes to meet her, dong-dong; 

The joybells uproarious 

Hilarious and glorious 

Reach heaven above us in song, 

Make one of two lovers, dong-dong; 

Their hearts palpitating 

New music creating 

The joys of their union prolong, 

Ding, ding-dong, ding, ding-dong, 
Ding-dang-ding-dong, ding-a-long, 
Ding-a-ling-dang-ding-ding-dang-ding-dong. 
Ding-dong, d-6-n-g. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


9 6 

Hark, hark! 

In the dark 
See the lurid red spark 
Which shoots like a star through the air 
And is lost in the ominous glare! 

And the firebells, tolling dong-dong-dong,^ 

Demoniac doling dong-dong, dong-dong-dong. 

And the forked red fire 

Mounting higher and higher 

Our hearts apprehensions prolong; 

Dong-dong-dong, dong-dong. D-6-n-g. 


How slow 
Do we go 

Through the fast-falling snow, 

When mother has left us alone 
And the broken heart only can moan; 
The death-bell is tolling, dong-dong, 
Beyond our controlling, dong-dong. 

Oh, darling, dear mother, 

Their notes cannot smother 
Our grief with funereal tone 
Nor call back the life that has flown. 
Dong-dong, dong-dong. 

Oh bell, cruel bell! 

Why do you my sorrow prolong? 
Vain is your endeavor, 

She’ll come back, oh never! 

Sweet mother, you’ve left us and gone, 
All alone, dearest mother, alone! 
Dong-dong, dong-dong. 


Ring, ring, holy bell, 

Bear her hence with thy swell 

To her Lord where he sits on his throne. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


97 


Fare-well, darling, Mother, farewell! 
Dong-dong, dong-dong, 

D-6-n-g, d-6-n-g. 


TWILIGHT 


T WILIGHT i>s waning through the trees 
That curtain the horizon’s rim, 

And through the dusk the melodies 
Of lowing cattle, droning bees 
Murmur the dying evening’s hymn. 

No organ’s quivering notes arise, 

No censer shedding sweet perfume, 

But praise ascending to the skies 
Through air all redolent with cries 
That mix sweet discord with the gloom. 

The windows now begin to glow, 

The fires in grates begin to burn; 

The lighted lamps swing to and fro 
While little feet to romping go, 

As homeward weary souls return. 

Somewhere, although we may not see, 

Are broken hearts subdued by pain, 

Rebellious of life’s mystery, 

Rebellious of duality 

Of Joy and Grief. Who can explain? 


WATERLOO 



ODAY the Titans meet, 


1 Men, horses, guns, complete; 
Have often met before, 

After today, no more. 


98 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


The clouds have flown away 
This beautiful June day, 

But everywhere the mud 
Tonight all red with blood. 

Napoleon is asleep; 

His order is to keep 
Silence around his tent 
On pain of punishment. 

At eight he wakes and roars! 
His venom he outpours. 

Ah, Sire, it is too late— 

It is the sleep of Fate. 

The earth now trembles under 
The tramp of steeds; the thunder 
Of cannon splits the air— 

Men mangled everywhere. 

The impetuous French advance 
With Tri-color of France 
And backward push their foes 
As pandemonium rose. 

The Lions plant their feet 
In sodden fields of wheat, 

While Ney comes thundering on 
Direct at Wellington. 

“Oh that the night would come 
Or Bliicher!” But the boom 
Of cannon all around 
Of Bliicher brings no sound. 

But soon a flag appears 
Eastward, and rousing cheers 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


99 


Proclaim istern Bliicher nigh 
Where Prussian Eagles fly. 

Ein fester Berg is he— 

But where can Grouchy be? 

Lion and Eagles meet. 

Napoleon’s horse is fleet. 

Farewell, Napoleon! 

Soon the Bellerophon 
Will bear you hence afar 
Unto Saint Helena. 

There shall you meditate 
On the decrees of Fate; 

Then, after death, shall reign 
Henceforth, upon the Seine. 

SOLITUDE 

L AY doubt aside and walk with me, 
My friend, among the mossy trees 
Within the forest depths where we 
The handiwork of nature see, 

As a believer sees. 

There stand the oaks as they have stood 
For centuries, ere we were born, 

A sun-adoring brotherhood 
Lifting their giant arms of wood 
And welcoming the morn. 

Within those shades the rain and heat 
Have mixed the secret of their power 
Where shrub and vine and bramble meet, 


100 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And songsters at the sunrise greet 
The radiant morning hour. 

Far out beyond the green I see 
Vast vistas of the boundless blue; 

Like ghosts the clouds drift silently 
Lost in the void immensity 
With ever changing hue. 

Beneath the blueness of the sky, 

Amid the greenness of the wood, 

Where birds and bees go singing by, 
The cynic’s quibbling I defy 
And feel God’s fatherhood. 

I question not the origin 
Of aught I see above, below, 

Nor rack my brain for how or when 
Man’s life began, or what is sin, 

Or where the comets go. 

’Tis here I learn to give my thought 
Loose rein and let it riot free; 

’Tis here I see what God has wrought, 
How little man’s conceit has brought 
Of true philosophy. 

From bird and bloom and blade of grass 
A voice in silence speaks to me; 

In the primeval wilderness 
I see in nature as a glass 
My immortality. 

All adumbrating types repealed 
Here speaks God truly to the soul; 

All formal symmetry concealed, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


As in the Burning Bush revealed, 

He fills, informs the whole. 

In that great temple of the soul 
Where life flows with majestic tide 
And thunderous diapasons roll 
Beyond the power of death’s control, 
No skeptic can abide. 

No Memnon’s music there is made, 
No Delphic oracle is there; 

No wind as in Dodona’s shade, - 
No fire, as when Elijah prayed, 

No angels in the air. 

Here in the silence I commune 
With nature and with nature’s Lord 
And chant His praises without tune; 

No mysteries of a God triune 
Demand my thought or word. 

No bleeding victim here I need, 

No perfumed censer here I see; 

From jargoning of cult or creed, 

From rules and rites forever freed 
Of dogma or decree. 

I seek no great, cherubic throng 
Where saints in robes of light may sit 
No place where golden streets belong, 
No choirs immortal, or their song; 
Only the Infinite. 

God of the wondrous solitude 
Help me Thy footsteps here to see, 

To stand not as the priest has stood, 


102 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


To prate of death and hell and blood, 

But just to follow Thee. 

And oh, Thou uncreated Love 

Who fillest the world with light and grace, 

Through life, through death toward Thee I move, 

Until eternity shall prove 

Thyself my resting-place. 


WHAT I LOVE 

I LOVE the simple, primal things 

That bear the stamp of nature’s mint, 
That first the thought of power brings 
And then the joy of beauty’s glint. 

I love the clouds that sail amain 
Like ships upon the ocean blue, 

The winds that die and rise again, 

The sunset’s ever changing hue. 

I love the voices of the spring 
That call the flowers to life again, 

The pattering raindrops a*s they bring 
Refreshing showers to thirsty plain. 

I love the mountains rough and grand 
That prop the overhanging skies 
And drop their boulders on the sand 
Round which the fringing forest lies. 

I love the mystery of the deep 
As quiet as a little child, 

The roaring waves that o’er it sweep 
With fierce demoniac force and wild. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


103 


I love the lightning’s awful glare 
That horrifies with bright excess 
And the tremendous crashing where 
It falls upon the wilderness. 

I love the feathery flakes that fall 
And circle to the earth below, 

The vine that clambers up the wall 
And blooms in spite of falling snow. 

I love the rivers as they flow 
With majesty into the sea— 

Types of the centuries that go 
Onward into eternity. 

I love the honest man who tries 
To serve the age in which he lives, 

Who daily makes some sacrifice 
And daily some glad service gives. 

I love, who does not love, to feel 
That, though our progress may be slow, 

We shall attain the final weal 
That waits us in life’s after-glow. 

REVERIE 

L AST night while rest and slumber were denied 
And darkened skies forbade the coming day, 
I heard the vast confusion of the tide 
Along the bay. 

I heard the distant booming of its guns, 

The low, continuous muttering of the sea, 

The raucous grind as forth and back it runs 
Continually. 


104 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


I heard the steeds of Neptune strike their feet 
Upon Cyclopean rocks that pave the shore, 

The age-long strife where force with force must 
meet 

Forevermore. 

And soon beyond the boundaries of the deep 
Night gathered up her robes as in dismay, 

The pencilings of morning upward sweep 
And lead the day. 

I see upon the bare and barren ground 
Funereal signs in garden, fields and trees, 

And then spring’s low sweet trumpets all around 
To birds, grass, bees. 

The sun-god starts upon his southern course 
And drives his chariot through the flaming skies, 
For in the realms of all the universe 
Life death defies. 

I know the questions of the earnest mind, 

I feel its hopes, its fears all unsuppressed, 

The piteous pleadings of the heart to find 
Some final rest. 

Then, evermore, the answer comes to me:— 
Beyond life’s tide, beyond its setting sun, 

The task unfinished but assigned to thee 
Must yet be done. 

But how, or where, or with what vast degree 
Or circumscribed by compass of the soul, 

I know eternal love will pilot me 
Unto the goal. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


105 


APRIL 

l_T OW chaste the apple-blossoms white 
-*• That wave in the translucent light 
Which glows in April days, 

How sweet the odor that distills, 

With velvet air the orchard fills 
And dies in distant haze. 

Across the meadow green arise 
Blue rings of smoke up to the skies 
From chimneys old and gray, 

As though upon Druidic stone 
A victim bleeds and dies alone 
Shut out from light of day. 

The cock rings out his canzonet 
And leads his harem where the wet 
Drips down from clover buds; 

The swallow dropping from the sky 
With lightning wings goes twittering by 
And lost beyond the woods. 

The sun pours down in crimson flood 
As rich as sacrificial blood, 

Yet guiltless of its stain; 

When all at once the forests roar 

And down the pattering raindrops pour— 

Then floods of light again. 

The hawthorne standing by the brook 
With dripping buds in sunny nook 
Supports her bridal vine, 

The dogwood on the hills afar 
Glows white, half hid by the cymar 
Of amorous muscadine. 


106 SOUTHERN POEMS 

The walnut glad the winter’s gone 
Her garniture of green puts on 
And waves her tassels long, 

The birds in feathered parliament 
Declare with no voice dissident 
Her shade the hall of song. 

The water leaping from the rocks 
Makes music as it falls and mocks 
The gloom I hold so dear, 

And singing hurries to the sea, 

Its merry voices say to me 
Away with doubt and fear. 

Ah, could I banish thought’s eclipse 
And hear, dear friends, from your mute 
The truths that nature brings, 

I know one chorus you would swell:— 
“Art thou a Master in Israel 
And knowest not these things?” 


BEYOND THE GATES 

O UT yonder in the moonlight lies 
A sleeping multitude, 

The rich, the poor, the fool, the wise, 
The royal and the rude. 

A marble shaft, a piece of board 
From grassy mounds arise, 

Some few the simple truth afford, 

The rest but loving lies. 

But why should aught but simple truth 
Be lettered on each stone? 

The best some grievous wrong, forsooth 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

The worst some good have done. 

And whether wholly good or bad 
Is not for us to say, 

For they, if brighter light had had, 
Had wrought a different way. 

Thus, good or bad at every step 
Our earthly lives disclose, 

Today by passion we are swept, 
Tomorrow in repose. 

But still we keep with steady way 
Our course through storm and shine, 
Waiting the dawning of the day 
That brings us the divine. 

And you, who strive for higher good, 
The noble and the true, 

You shall be judged by what you would 
Rather than what you do. 

For man does not attain to what 
His nature shows his due, 

And often what,he wishes not 
By chance is driven to. 

Yet, let us not despise the wind 
That drives our bark away 
Nor grieve for what we left behind 
Nor yearn for happier day. 

For brighter yet the stars may rise 
And lovelier suns appear 
With greener fields and bluer skies 
Than those that greet us here. 

One thing we know, and that right well, 
Whatever wind may come, 

Whatever threatening wave may swell, 


107 


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SOUTHERN POEMS 


They bear us nearer home. 

And further, when, we end our quest, 
We surely know that we 
Will have attained to what is best, 
What e’er that best shall be. 


WHAT I SAID TO LAURA 

I SAID to Laura—but the wind 
Blew open the unbolted door 
And Laura’s gloves and my silk hat 
Went circling round upon the floor. 

I said to Laura as we walked 
About upon the new mown hay- 
just then her father called and said, 
“The church, my dear, has blown away.’ 

I said to Laura as we drove 
By fields of golden wheat in shock 
And dropped the lines to emphasize— 
The buggy dumped us on a rock. 

I said to Laura on the street 
While strolling out one glorious morn— 
I struck my toe against a brick 
And knocked the kernel from a corn. 

I said to Laura as the car 
Went rolling down the boulevard— 

An old friend slapped me on the back 
And said, “I’m glad to see you, pard.” 

I said to Laura as we sat 
Beside the ocean wide and deep 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

With hand upon my throbbing heart— 
But she had fallen fast asleep. 

I said to Laura as/we sat 

Beneath a poplar tree and dreamed— 

A bumble-bee lit on her hat 

And Laura bounded up and screamed. 

I said to Laura at her home 
(I felt that I must speak or die) 

Just then her grandmama came in— 

I said to both of them, Goodbye. 


UNCLE EPH’S CAT-FIGHT 

Y AS, honey, I ain’t nuver tole you 
Nuth’n but de truf; 

Case mammy always said 
Dat ever single day 
Would sen de proof, 

Ef you is right in whut you do 
An ever thing you say; 

An den you needn’t be afeared 
Er nuth’n. Ain’t dat true?” 

“Well, Uncle Eph, please tell again 
About the big cat-fight; 

I tried to tell it to my cousin Jane, 

But couldn’t get it right.” 

“No honey, dey ain’t nobody can 
Tell it, cep’n he seed it; 

But if he done dat, you know, 

He can make yer on-er-stan 
An splain how hit is so.” 


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SOUTHERN POEMS 


“Oh, Uncle Eph, you are so good! 

I told my city cousin that you would. 

Tell it exactly as you did last night, 

How those big tom-cats stood straight up to fight 
And how the—“Hit sho wuz fun,” 

Said Uncle Eph, who had begun 
To fumble in his pocket. “Jes wait, 

Till I git out my ’bacca— Dar! 

Run in the house, honey, tell yer pa 
Ter sen me some. 

By de time yer come 

Back, I’ll git it thuhk out straight!” 

Uncle Eph’s eyes looked like a rocket! 

A half a plug—it went into his pocket. 

“Hit wuz befo de war, bout fourteen year 
Ez nigh ez I kin rickermember, 

De same year dat de stars fell in November, 

Er some udder munt. I hear 
Em say Sunday dey gwine fight 
Dem big tomcats, jes fo night.” 

“Sunday?” said Janey in affright; 

“Yas, Sunday, chile, fer dat’s 
De bestest time ter fight wfd cats! 

“Well, dey made er ring about 
Eight foot ercross. De men stood thick 
Erroun so de cats can’t git out. ’ 

And den dey ontied de sacks an quick 
Dem two big tom-cats wuz dumped 
In de middle uv de ring. I nuver heerd 
Sech squawkin, ez when dem cats jumped 
On one another! I wuz skeered 
Nearly to death. I seed de har 
Er flying lak snow-birds in de ar! 

En soon de dus’ wuz so thick, mine you, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


hi 


You couldn’t see yer han’ bellin’ yer! 

Dey tails went whizzin roun an roun 
Lak fishing poles wid one en fn de groun. 

Over dey rolled, an up and down 
Bout eighty times—Good Ian! 

Miss Jane, yo cousin’s frown 
Shows dat she don’t zakly on-er-stan 
De natur uv er cat! 

I kin see dat.” 

The little girls were trembling; not a word 
From either one of them was heard. 

And Uncle Eph began to scratch his head:— 
“I’m gwine ter tell ye now de res,” he said. 

“Dey fit erbout er hour, en bime-by 
I see de devil in de blade cat’s eye. 

An den he fix he foots, jes so, 

An drawed hisself up in er bow 
An jumped, he did, on top of tother one, 

He scratched wid bof his fore-foots 
And bit jes lak de udder cat wuz meat 
Dat he wuz gwine ter eat. 

And den I heerd a man say Goodbye 
White cat, fer you is boun ter die!” 

“Oh, Uncle Eph,” the city cousin cried 
“What made them let them fight until they died?” 
Then Uncle Eph, scratching his head again, 
Said, “Dat’s de thing I’m tryin fer to splain.” 

“De big white cat jes riz up, you bet, 

Tho’ all.his upper part wuz hid, 

Ez if ter say, You ain'done whip me yet; 

En den, he ’gin ter spring, he did, 

Right on top of de black cat in de ar! 


11 2 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Dat’s monistrus strange, but I declar 
De black one jump ergin upon de white 
One; en dem two tom-cats kep er humpin 
En each one uv ’em on de yother jumpin, 
Tell de las time I seed ’em in de fight 
Day bofe done gon ezakly out er sight!” 

DOCTOR BLAZES 

W E now must mourn an absent one 
Cut off in manhood’s powers, 
iWho lately had his friend’s regard 
But has no longer hours. 

A dentist’s trade he followed 
And of money had possession, 

Although he often said it was 
A hand to mouth profession. 

Although a very pleasant man, 

With disposition sunny, 

One quite persistent vise he had 
And used it to make money. 

He sometimes entertained the poor 
With good advice at dinners 
And often talked of golden crowns 
To rich, hard-hearted sinners. 

Gravely he talked of temperance, 

This wonderful tooth-puller, 

And seldom did he get so full 
But could have gotten fuller. 

He loved his church and grieved to see 
From her the least defection, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And often paid her bills himself— 

Just after a collection. 

He loved to hear the organ play 
It’s joyous tones revealing, 

And sometimes when his mouth was sore 
He sang with tender feeling. 

And when he sinned, he would pray twice, 
Upon the sins enlarging; 

Salvation was a future deal 
And he put up the margin. 

And when his daughter married Jones, 
The doctor of the village, 

He said that though a pious girl, 

She now must live on pillage. 

He had for his dear wife the love 
The poet always praises; 

In peace he called her Helen dear— 

In wrath, just Helen Blazes! 

And when some twins came to his home 
Upon a Sabbath balmy, 

He called one of them Hallie-Lou 
A^d named the other Psalmie. 

And when he died it chilled his heart 
That no one now would love him; 

He said that when they buried him 
His friends would be above him. 

Then let us gather round his grave 
And drop some tears of sorrow; 

He died bankrupt, we hold his notes 
And mine are due tomorrow. 


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114 


THE LAST BUBBLE 

A N old man sat with pipe and pan 

(He was twice a child and once a man) 

On a fair June day as the shadows ran 
From hill to vale from vale to hill, 

While the birds were mute and the air was still. 
His head hung low as he oft had done 
On a summer day at set of sun. 

Alone he sat and a gorgeous ray 
Fell on his pipe and glanced away, 

And he said in dreamy words and low 
“I shall see them again before I go.” 

He dipped his pipe in the sparkling pan 
Where the glossy bubbles to clusters ran, 

And slowly filled its bowl and blew 
With tremulous hand, yet breathing true; 

And then there came from the magical stem 
A faded scene, but many a gem 
Reflected the light with changing sheen 
Of purple, yellow, of blue and _green, 

Then loosed its hold from the pipe of clay 
And shimmering drifted slowly away. 

“An unfinished vision,” the old man said, 

As the early days of childhood sped, 

For soon from hearts and hopes endeared 
Those days of childhood disappeared. 

Softly he blew the pipe again, 

Soft as a breeze o’er flowery plain; 

And the old man’s heart again was young 
And filled with the songs his youth had sung, 
Songs that the angels might have heard, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


1 15 

Learned from the brook, the kite and bird; 

For he saw in the hues reflected fair 

His boyhood home and his playmates there. 

And his mother standing in the door, 

The dear old face he will see no more. 

The old man mused for a little while, 

His eyes were wet, but a happy smile 

Showed that he felt the inward glow 

That the world thought dead long years ago. 

Gently he blew; a bright young face 
Was mirrored in the bubble; its grace 
Showed once again the waving hair 
That halfway hid a brow so fair; 

And the blue eyes gleaming just below 
Said by their lustre, “Again we glow 
For you, dear one, as we used to do.’* 

And the old man cried, “Oh, wife, ’tis you 
Who have come again to call me away! 

I will go with you at the close of day.” 

Again he blew. As the bubble swelled 

A fair young girl his eyes beheld 

Radiant as angel from the skies 

With the tender blue of her mother’s eyes; 

But her hair was just as his had been 

When he roamed the hills and valleys green; 

And, though his eyes with tears were dim, 

He saw her arms stretched out to him 
As if to say in her early bloom 
“Come, dearest father, I beg you, come.” 

He raised his hands as if to stay 
Her spirit-form but she went away; 

His breath came fast, and he whispered then 
“I’ll soon be with you, daughter, again.” 


ii 6 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Once more he blew, it was his last 
And he saw the war-clouds overcast, 

His people torn with rude alarms 

And he heard the cry “To arms, to arms!” 

Then, a slender youth with noble mien 
Went galloping forth. Long since, the green 
That follows the dreadful battle-storm 
Had hidden his new gray uniform. 

Again, in the glory of youth he came 
And lovingly called his father’s name. 

The ray had faded, the light was gone, 

Yet the old man sat for a while alone, 

Then, bent his head a*s he had at first; 

He heard sweet voices! Life’s bubble had burst. 


NO SUBSTITUTE 

S OME things must be, or must not be; 

No vacillating substitute 
In time or in eternity 
Can ever suit. 

There is no substitute for work 
With mind or heart or soul; alas, 

How often tried by sham to shirk— 

It will not pass. 

There is no substitute for truth; 

Evasion, subterfuge are crass 
Hypocrisy and lies. Oh youth, 

They will not pass. 

There is no substitute for gold; 

Go mix your silver, copper, brass 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And change your mixture till you’re old— 
It will not pass. 

There is no substitute for love; 

Ask any little country lass, 

A turned-up nose alone will prove 
It will not pass. 

There is no substitute for death, 

For man, the heavens and for the mass 
Of everything above, beneath 
It comes to pass. 

Be wise, for ignorance is guilt; 

Nor should we ever think it strange 
That laws on which is Kosmos built 
Will ever change. 


MY MOTHER’S DEATH 

M Y mother lay upon her bed 
In mortal agony 

And though not two years was she wed, 
She gave her life for me. 

Pure as the unpolluted snow 
And warm her Southern heart, 

Her dying eyes gave forth the glow 
That knows no painter’s art. 

Calm and serene, she sweetly spoke 
To those who stood near by, 

Nor intermittent pain awoke 
The tribute of a sigh. 


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SOUTHERN POEMS 


She bade her relatives farewell 
And kissed her sleeping child, 

Then went away with Christ to dwell 
And all his undefiled. 

She knew not what it was to doubt 
The gospel Christ had given; 

So, when life’s candles here burned out, 
They brighter glowed in Heaven. 

And those who saw her fade away 

Like sunbeam from the sky 

Felt they would here no longer stay, 

If they, as she, could die. 

How oft I’ve knelt beside her grave 
Where she so long has lain, 

And every time my thanks I gave 
That she is free from pain. 

For though I know she is not there 
Within the grave’s dark night, 

Her ashes are my holiest care, 

Her memory sad delight. 

When, too, my summons is received 
To cross the great divide, 

I’d give ten thousand worlds to have lived 
As she has lived and died. 

And when my life is blent with hers 
Radiant with Heaven’s bloom, 

I’ll read no more with joyous tears 
These words upon her tomb:— 

“Her life was peaceful as a dove, 

She died as blossoms die, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


119 


And now her spirit floats above, 

A seraph of the sky.” 

Now, what I have from childhood thought 
For the first time is said, 

This filial tribute I have brought 
To Mother living—dead. 


THE OTHER FELLOW’S BOY 

T WO neighbors living on a street 

Would often on the sidewalk meet, 
One puffing from a good cigar, 

One thinking of a catchy bar 
Snatched from a passing opera. 

No need was there to fret or pine, 

Their health was good, their business fine 
With money in the bank to pay 
The business calls of every day. 

Their wives were beautiful; no class 
In lovely manners could surpass, 

And everything conspired to bless 
Their lives and bring them happiness. 

But sometimes in the calmest mind 
A touch of sorrow one may find, 

Not deep, or pungent, but enough 
To indicate that some rebuff 
Or some miscarriage of a plan 
Has left its impress on the man, 

Has for a moment changed his air 
As if some cloud were passing there. 

And thus one morning as they met 
Jones puffed his fragrant weed, but yet 
’Twas plain to see he entertained 


120 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Something that gave him inward pain; 

And, though with easy air he tried 
To cast the vagrant thought aside, 

It made him quite abstracted seem 
As if he walked half in a dream. 

Smith, too, more serious was today 
Than was his customary way, 

And looking, one would think that he 
A slightly moodier air could see 
Harbored within his placid breast 
That made him seem a bit distressed. 

Then, looking up he saw nearby 
His neighbor, and at once his eye 
Beamed, forth in its accustomed way, 

As sunshine after showers in May. 

“Hello,” cried Jones, “you seem to be 
Wrapped in some sort of reverie. 

I hope no circumstance or word 
Your usual happiness has marred, 

But, if such thing unhappy be, 

My friend, feel free to call on me 
And calling be assured that I 
Will never pass your burdens by.” 

“Thanks, friend,” said Smith, “you are indeed 
The very counsellor I need; 

And possibly you may suggest 
The thing of which I am in quest.” 

Said Jones, “I’ll do my very best; 

Working together we will seek 
A way to solve your problem. Speak.” 

“You know,” said Smith, “I have a son 
Whose high school work is nearly done; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


121 


Who every time, thus far, has made 
A splendid mark in every grade. 

He knows his English well indeed, 

And easy French at sight can read; 

And if to Latin we should go 
The prime essentials does he know, 

And Caesar loves and Cicero. 

In Greek through grammar he has gone, 
Has read four books of Xenophon, 

Knows every verbal conjugation 
And each pronominal relation.” 

“Great Scott!” said Jones, “don’t tell me so; 
A rocket to the sky he’ll go.” 

“In History I could not ask 
That you assign an easier task 
That he in order strict should name 
Each British sovereign known to fame 
With birth and deeds and death of same. 

He can discuss with perfect ease 
The classic age of Pericles, 

The unjust death of Socrates, 

The victory of Miltiades, 

The treason of Themistocles, 

The speeches of Demosthenes, 

And other famous things like these.” 

Jones said, “That sounds strange to me! 

His pants come only to his knee.” 

“In Roman history he can tell 
The names of those who rose and fell 
From Remus killed beside his wall 
To Caesar, conqueror of Gaul. 

He’s excellent in mathematics, 


122 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


At home in difficult quadratics; 

And with geometry before them 
He’s first across pons asinorum.” 

When Smith had finished, Jones replied:— 
“I think you should be satisfied; 

Indeed, I’d give the world if he 
Were mine, so happy I would be. 

What need you further to express 
The fullness of your happiness?” 

“One thing alone. Like other boys 
If he would only make a noise— 

Would whistle or knock down a chair, 

Or yelling toss his hat in air, 

Or turn a somer-sault and scream, 

Or steal his mother’s Jersey cream; 

Or some good runner would outspeed 
And not just sit and read and read— 

He’d be to me a perfect joy 
Were he a copy of your boy.” 

Jones took a whiff of his cigar 
And blew the circling rings afar, 

And had a far-off solemn look 
As from his lips the stub he took, 

And said: “My friend, it’s very strange 
Our thoughts should take the selfsame range, 
For when we met, my thoughts were on 
The problem furnished by my son, 

Wishing that he might be like yours 
And fill his young mind with the stores 
Of science and of history. 

To me it is a mystery 
Why he goes crazy about ball, 

Nor scarcely wants to read at all.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Said Smith, “That’s fine, yes, very fine 
To see him lead the foot-ball line.” 

“He knows the weight of every bat, 

The size of every sprinter’s hat, 

He knows the make of every ball; 

In vaulting never gets a fall. 

In fact, the shibboleth of game 
Is his as easy as his name. 

For books he doesn’t care a rip, 

And often he from school will slip 
And spend his time in some clear pool 
Of water ten feet deep and cool.” 

Smith: “That’s the kind of boy for me— 
The kind I was in Tennessee.” 

Said Jones, “To satisfy each one, 

I banter you that this be done— 

That for a month your boy be mine 
And mine be yours. That would be fine! 
Each day to do as he has done 
At home, reading or having fun.” 

Smith said: “That plan I think is right, 
We’ll make the trade and change tonight.” 

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Jones 
That night in her most charming tones; 
“I’m glad to see you, Tommy dear, 

And hope you’ll have a good time here. 
Just feel at home and if you need 
A book or magazine to read 
In the library, second floor, 

You’ll find all that you need, and more. 
Breakfast at nine, dinner at seven 
With lunch; and lights out at eleven,” 


123 


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SOUTHERN POEMS 


Tom was delighted with the plan 
And right up to his room he ran 
And said, “This is a glorious nook; 

How have I longed to read this book.” 

“How did you rest?” inquired his host 
At breakfast. “Sir, it was the most 
Delightful time I ever had; 

I’m sure I never felt more glad.” 

And breakfast done, upstairs he went 
And o’er his books till evening bent. 

He passed the day with not a word 
In room or hall or garret heard; 

And Mrs. Jones in rapture smiled 
And said, “Were Tommy but my child!” 

Said Mrs. Smith, “I’m glad that you, 
Dear Sammy, have decided to 
(Remain with us a month or so; 

You’re welcome, dear, and you may go 
Or come at any time you wish. 

Just have a good time, hunt and fish 
And swim, play ball, do anything 
That pleasure unto you will bring; 

And if you have some other boys 
With you at times and make a noise 
We shall not think that you are rude, 

Or on our rest at night intrude; 

For our dear boy cares not for fun, 

It’s books from rise to set of sun.” 

Sam yelled and said, “Since I have come 
You make me feel at home, by gum, 

And now, I hope that you will see 
Just what a rooster ought to be.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS i 

A week passed by, when on the street 
The two friends chanced again to meet 
And each one gave the glad right hand, 

The best pleased man in all the land. 

Jones puffing rings toward the sky, 

A merry twinkle in his eye, 

Cried in exuberance of glee, 

“Just deed that boy, my friend, to me; 

A thousand dollars, sir, to boot! 

Just make the deed, I dare you do it.” 

Then Smith replied: “I’m very glad 
That I the lucky chance have had 
To study more the manly powers 
Of your boy, Jones, as well as ours. 

Your boy at times has raised a din 
Above, below, without, within 
And made me think sometimes he’d break 
A kind of dare-devil his neck. 

But though inclined to have his fun 
He only does as I have done 
When I was young and full of life. 

And how it does delight my wife 
To see him swing a two-pound bat 
Or turn a somer-sault; why, that 
Is just the thing I wish to see; 

No moping, book-worm boy for me!” 

Each wished the other one good day 
And both went musing on their way 
And each one grieving that he had 
Swindled his dearest friend so bad; 

For though there was no formal trade 
Each chuckled at the deal he made. 

Two weeks more passed. ’Twas Friday night 
And Jones came home. The house was bright 


126 SOUTHERN POEMS 

And warm and pleasant as could be, 

But Mrs. Jones sat silently, 

And seemed as though she were intent 
On something. So Jones kindly bent 
And took the idle hand and said, 

“Have you the latest novel read?” 

“I have not read a single thing 
For a whole week. I cannot bring 
My mind to do so.” “Why, my dear, 

Is there a cause for worry here? 

If so I beg you to dismiss 
Such worry; and remember this— 

No cloud shall come across your way 
That I can hinder night or day.” 

On the piano front she bowed 
Her head and wept, yes, sobbed aloud. 
Between her sobs she cried, “His room 
Is just as silent as a tomb! 

For a whole week I have not heard 
A whistle, laugh or spoken word, 

Oh, bring my Sammy back again^ 

And never more will I complain.” 

That night just after sipping tea 
His wife said, “Mr. Smith, hear me! 

I’m tired of this silly trade 

That you and Mr. Jones have made. 

I do not wtsh to give offense 
To our friends; but there’s no sense 
In longer keeping him. You know 
Sammy should to his parents go. 
Remember this, I told you so !” 

These fathers still are loyal friends 
And each his money freely spends 
For other’s good. No more they trade, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

But laugh yet at the one they made. 

Their wives are just as good and sweet, 

But not so often do they meet; 

And each her own designs employs 
For raising and for ruling boys. 

For, good or bad, for large or small, 

The mother loves them best of all. 

OH, SOUL OF MINE 

H, Soul of mine, whence didst thou come 
To make this mortal flesh thy home? 

Afar or near, above, beneath? 

Art thou a substance or a breath? 

Today thou art 
The nobler part 

Of that complex and wondrous thing 
A man—a peasant or a king. 

Thou are not simply flesh and blood; 

Too much of evil and of good 
Are found in thy complexity. 

No animal can think like thee 
And meet the strife 
Of daily life 

All conscious that in after days 

Thy pains will bring thee greater praise. 

To suffer and be strong, to grope 
In darkness without seeming hope; 

Through sable forms of deep distress 
Onward and upward still to press, 

Nor backward try 
To turn thine eye 

To scenes enshrined in happier hours— 

These manifest thy psychic powers. 


127 


128 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Though all thou knowest as yet is here 
Within this rosy flesh so dear, 

Soul, art thou satisfied to dwell 
Forever in this earthly cell, 

While powers within 
Make thee akin 

To those who live forevermore 
In domes of light on fairer shore? 

Though birds and bees and fragrant flowers, 
Sunshine and alternating showers 
Make the sweet fullness of thy day, 

Nor friendship die nor love decay, 

Of very joy 

Thou soon must cloy 

And long to turn life’s unseen page 

Where nobler themes and thoughts engage. 

Thou canst not think and look afar 
At the bright radiance of a star 
But thou must feel it has for thee 
A voice and mystic minstrelsy, 

A light divine 
On thee to shine; 

Thy fellow, though so far away, 

Invites thee, Soul, to brighter day. 

Though thou couldst fly on seraph wing 
Through earth and sky; though thou couldst sing 
As sang the first-born sons ojf light; 

Though thou hadst Jovian mind and might 

Thou must abide 

Unsatisfied 

’Till God in mercy show to thee 
Oh, Soul, thy immortality. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


129 


Then fear not the approaching hour 
Nor pale at dissolution’s power; 

In some bright realm, with death behind, 

Thou shalt behold the eternal Mind 
And end thy quest 
And enter rest— 

Rest, for thou hast attained thy goal 
With naught beyond, oh, restless Soul. 

LUCK 

T HERE are two kinds of people a’most every¬ 
where; 

The first kind just sit down and sit, 

But the other ones hustle and rustle and rear 
To go—and they git up and git. 

Don’t sit down and whine and gag about luck, 

For luck, like a whiner’s, a fool; 

Just hold to your job, for Holding and Pluck 
And Hard-knocks are the best books in school. 

Ten thousand ahead of you learned in that school, 
And stuck to their jobs with a grin, 

For the fellow that sticks like a tick, as a rule, 

In the long run and short run will win. 

It isn’t the duds that you have on your back 
Nor the rocks you pack in your jeans, 

It’s the gift my son, of toil and tact 
When once you have spilt your beans. 

Don’t go all the gaits, just one is enough, 

And measure your speed to your pile, 

Keep on keeping on past highbrow and tough, 

And you’ll come to the goal with a smile. 


130 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


THE FOOLISH BIRD 
FOOLISH bird 



One howling winter’s day 
By folly stirred 
Had drifted far away 
From hayrick warm 
And shiny grains of wheat 
Into the storm 
With freezing wings and feet. 

No bug or seed, 

No cover on her back, 

Nor home, indeed, 

Nor shingle in a crack; 

And everywhere 
As far as eye could go 
Were freezing air 
And heaps of drifting snow. 

It was too late, 

She could not now repent, 

And cruel fate 
No favored moment lent; 

In headling way 
She hastened swiftly on 
Until the day 

And help and hope were gone. 

What made the bird 
Leave home and food behind? 
Had she e’er heard 
Of such in human kind? 

I cannot name 

Her reason, but I know, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


131 


When morning came 
She lay beneath the snow. 


THE PROFESSOR 

A CERTAIN teacher, drumming for his school, 
Put into his deep pockets, as his rule, 

His catalogues and papers, so that he 
Might not permit the vulgar crowd to see 
His wares. ’Twas not that he had fear 
Of ridicule, but that he might appear 
No pedant. Full of conscious worth 
He felt his work of all things on the earth 
Was noblest. His it was to gaze 
Upon the beautiful and thus to raise 
The aspiring and the earnest youth 
To higher effort to attain the truth. 

His greatest joy to cultivate the mind 
And heart, and everywhere to find 
Conducive means amid life’s busy swirl 
To make himself a blessing to the world. 

Thus meditating, though he did not speak, 

He rises, when he hears the whistle shriek, 
Descends the steps amid a jostling crowd, 

’Mid noisy cabmen surging, yelling loud, 

He takes his seat, the only one aboard, 

And sits erect, as though he were a lord. 

“Whar is yer baggage, boss?” the porter said. 

“I have no baggage,” shaking too, his head. 

Sambo was silent, but he looked perplexed 
As if to say “Dar! What mus’ I do next?” 

Then, looking sharply at his newfound guest 
He sought to lay such questioning at rest. 

“Is you a drummer, boss, if I mout ax?” 

“Indeed, yes, porter, you have guessed the facts.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


13 2 

“ ’An what yer sell, grindstones er winder-panes?” 
“Neither, good porter, I sell only brains.” 

Sambo stood silent, looking at the sky. 

Then, nonchalantly to him made reply:— 

“Boss, in my day, I’se many drummers foun, 

But you’s de fust don’t take no samples roun!” 


MINISTERING SPIRITS 

(To Memory of Mrs. Laura Jennings and Mrs. 
Mollie Morgan.) 

H OW often when the night has come 
And things of sense are hidden, 

A holy feeling fills the home 
As though a guest unbidden, 

But welcome still, is standing near 
With tender, loving feeling, 

A sweet seraphic messenger, 

With balm for grief revealing. 

Thus, oftentimes in midnight’s awe 
We see on airy ladder 
Such forms as sleeping Jacob saw 
Yet holier and gladder. 

For they were once of our blood 
And passed through death’s dark portal, 

Ere they went up to live with God 
In fellowship immortal. 

And though the voice no longer speaks 
The language here once spoken, 

And though the heart no longer breaks 
Nor grieves for others broken, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


133 


They hover o’er each humble home 
By learning undefended, 

Where faith and hope and love have come 
And sin and doubt have ended. 

But give us this sweet confidence 
With all thy gracious giving, 

To see, oh God, through films of sense 
That our beloved are living. 

Believing this, we still can bear 
Each providence distressing 
And fill the nights of grief and care 
With Bethels of thy blessing. 

THE GLOAMING 

I OFTEN sit in the gloaming 
That follows the fading day 
And my mind goes swiftly roaming 
To the things of yesterday; 

And a sweet and sacred feeling 
Steals o’er my heart revealing 
That I am not here to stay. 

Sometimes I feel uncertain 
If life be grave or gay, 

Sometimes that death is a curtain 
To hide an eternal May; 

And then with a feeling tender 
I read in the fading splendor 
I am not here to stay. 

I am neither sad nor lonely 
For a world that has passed away, 

Not dead—but vanished only 


134 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Into the shadows gray; 

For, whatever things I’m seeking, 
They tell me plainly speaking 
I am not here to stay. 


THE PRINCESS AND THE MILKMAID 1 

S HE sits by the window a captive young maiden 
And sees a poor milk-maid go merrily by, 

A Plantagenet princess, by care she is laden 
With gloom in her heart and a tear in her eye. 

Oh, would I were but a child of a yoeman 
Whose grass-covered cottage I yesterday saw, 
Whose brave Saxon heart is opposed to the foeman, 
Whose board, although scanty, protected by law. 

For what is a palace if love is not in it 
Or what are the trappings of birth and of fame? 
Far better a cottage if merit should win it, 
Though rustic the owner and humble the name. 

Far happier the milkmaid who thinks of her lover 
And sings of the day that her wedding may bring 
Than the princess who soon the fact will discover 
That she lives in a prison, the child of a king. 

Though heir to the realm, though her blood may be 
royal, 

Though honor and riches are heaped by her side, 
She dreams in her heart of a lover that’s loyal 
And yearns for a husband who loves but his bride. 

1 This scene is attributed by Miss Strickland to the Vrincess 
Elizabeth when a captive by Queen Mary in the Castle pf Wood- 
Stock. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 135 

She may have the devotion of all of her nation, 

She may have all the honor that comes as her due, 
But the crown that she craves is the virtuous obla¬ 
tion 

That springs from a love that is steadfast and true. 

For, say what you will, a queen’s but a woman 
And love is the most precious gem that she brings, 
And he who would trifle with that is inhuman 
Though varied his titles as Nestor of Kings. 

The prince may be true as the swain who is riding 
The furrows of labor with strong, manly form, 
The swain may be noble as prince who is guiding 
The vessel of state that is breasting the storm. 

Yes, happy the milkmaid whose swain’s love abid¬ 
ing 

Prepares her a cot by the wheat or the corn, 
Thrice happy the princess whose lover confiding 
Is true to that love which her virtues adorn. 

Then, what is a palace if love is not in it? 

And what is a cot if but true love be there? 

If you have not loved, it is time to begin it— 

The love of the pure for the love of the fair. 


FORWARD LOOKING 

T HE Past is dead and buried now 
Which so much suffering bore, 
The laurels that adorn its brow 
Are green for evermore. 

Another age has dawned, the world 
Speeds onward toward the light 


136 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And mighty hosts with flags unfurled 
Are guardians of the right. 

Back to the Motherland we went 
Our own in blood and creed, 

Back to her when her strength was spent 
And we beheld her need. 

Back to our Mother’s friend and foe 
Whose aid can we forget? 

Back to the land of Rochambeau, 

To the Tomb of La Fayette. 

The foe we fought should not complain, 
The work was quickly done, 

And the old quest of Aquitaine 
Was ended for the Hun. 

We did again what Caesar did 
Two thousand years ago 
That Gaul and Belgium might be rid 
Of their old robber foe. 

No narrow bounds again will cramp 
The seas on which we sail, 

No selfish creed again shall damp 
The faith that must prevail. 

The fear of God which made us free, 
The law which made us great 
Will keep us so, and this shall be 
The glory of our state. 

And so the Old is dead and gone, 

The New is here to stay, 

The rock which once we split upon 
No longer bars our way. 

And thus our old-time debts we pay, 

For we must stand or fall 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


137 


As we advance the new-made way 
With Britain and with Gaul. 


THE CROWNING 

J ESUS is coming, the multitude waits 

His royal approach to Jerusalem’s gates; 
From temple and palace and slum come the throng, 
To crown Judah’s Lion who tarries so long. 

There are Levites devout who have prayed on for 
years, 

There are Annas and Simeons joyous in tears, 
While publicans, lepers and harlots go out, 

For Shiloh has come to his Kingdom, they shout. 

The sisters from Bethany, Lazarus true, 

And poor Magdalene weeping anew 
With gratitude, and rich Zacchaeus again 
Greets blind Bartimaeus and the Widow of Nain. 

There was she whom the crafty Pharisees sought 
The Christ to condemn—they had not been caught; 
The woman who stood by Samaria’s well, 

And the man from the Tombs came his praises to 
swell. 

The Syrophoenician daughter now fair, 

The paralyzed man of Bethesda are there 

And the foolish Young Ruler who turned away sad, 

And the Prodigal Son with his father are glad. 

No wonder they shout with delirious joy, 

The Promised has come Zion’s foes to destroy— 
Not the Romans, oh, no! but a triumph to win 
With the hosts of the Lord o’er the kingdom of 
sin. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


138 

Hosanna! The paean goes up to the skies, 

Blest be David’s Son, the multitude cries, 

And the olive trees wave o’er the path as he goes 
Regaled by the perfume of myrtle and rose. 

Surely, never a king had an entry so great, 

Nor subjects like his, nor endless estate; 
Tomorrow the Priest-King all sprinkled with blood 
Will be crowned on his throne, the Anointed of 
God. 


AT THE CARNEGIE 

T SOMETIMES go and spend an hour 
A Down at the Carnegie, 

Where the librarian knows her books 
And promptly answers me. 

“I have just left the freezing street, 

It sleets and snows by turns; 

What shall I read to make me warm?” 
She answered, “Robert Burns.” 

Another time it was so hot 
My breath seemed almost gone, 

“What is the coolest book you have?” 
“The Prisoner of Chillon.” 

One day I was so hungry 
That I could not read in peace; 

I told her so, she said, “You need 
Studies in Modern Greece.” 

I was not satisfied, I wished 
Philosophy or song; 

Greece did not suit my appetite— 
“Why, Bacon take along.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


i 39 


Another time, depressed I said, 

“I want to tell you this: 

My heart is heavy and I need—” 

She said “The Songs of Bliss.” 

One day I said, “I want a book 

To take away my pride 

And make me feel the inward need—” 

She gave me Akinside. 

“I want to be an engineer 
And learn to build a road, 

To lay foundation, top it off—” 

“Shelley, I think, is good.” 

“If I should be a dairyman, 

What book would you suggest 
Describing cattle, giving plan—” 

“Why, Cowper is the best.” 

“I had a chill this morning 
And its dread effect I feel; 

Give'me a book to brace me up—” 

“Here are the Works of Steele.” 

“What author makes one feel the most 
The joys of future hope 
And helps one most to love his church?” 
She said, “Why, surely, Pope.” 

“I want some verses for a friend 
Whose life is quite forlorn; 

I want to prove that death is gain—” 
“Just let him read your own.” 

I thus perceived she knew her books, 
That none could be above her; 


140 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


“Please, give me now your favorite—” 
She blushed at Samuel Lover. 

“Ah! How you set my heart on fire! 
With love I truly pant; 

Will you be mine to bless my life?” 

“Pm sorry, sir, I Kant.” 

“It seems you’re very much inclined 
With me to have some fun; 

Say, is it not against the rules—” 

“My dear sir, I am Donne.” 


THE ARMADA 

I v WAS in the days of Philip the Second, you’ve 
A heard of him I guess, 

In the time of Merrie England, in the reign of 
Elizabeth 

The King thought of his dignity and Mary Tudor’s 
throne 

And he decided to claim her right and take it for his 
own. 

For Elizabeth was a heretic and, hence, should suf¬ 
fer death, 

Though the Pope had called King Henry “Defender 
of the Faith”; 

Besides the English privateers swarmed o’er the 
western main 

And many a Spanish galleon gold-ladened came not 
again. 

Day after day, in the Escuriel of trouble he could 
hear; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


141 

“I swear by the beard of my father, it shall cost 
them dear”; 

And the word went out to assemble men from all his 
wide domain, 

From Cadiz unto Antwerp, from Peru unto Spain. 

His ships were gathered from every port a hundred 
thirty and three, 

Their sailors crowded the quarter decks, their can¬ 
non swept the sea; 

They spread their sails one August day and pen¬ 
nants on every ship 

Fluttered as mighty gulls they moved seven miles 
from tip to tip. 

Brave Howard, what are you going to do with forty 
sail and less? 

Will you hide in the Friths of Scotia’s coast or die 
for good Queen Bess? 

Elizabeth, you have waited long but your martial 
words still ring 

To your troops drawn up at Tilbury^ “I’ve the 
heart of an English King.” 

On come the monster ships of Spain, today is the 
Crack of Doom, 

Bait Howard flies in the face of them and his can¬ 
non boom, boom, boom! 

The men-of-war like drunken sailors into each other 
run 

And from a score of the English line fire spurts 
from every gun. 

The spars are split, the decks run blood. Then 
Howard’s trumpet cried, 


142 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


“Turn loose the fire-ships!” Demon like,, they 
drift on the rapid tide 

And strike on the mass of tangled hulls; the blazing 
spars now fall, 

While the cannoneers jump aboard and the black 
smoke covers all. 

Then came the gale from the Biscan Bay and smote 
them fore and aft 

And the King of the fierce Euroclydon rode on the 
wind and laughed; 

The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, the waves 
rolled mountain high 

But Howard and Drake and every ship rode safe 
till the storm went by. 


When Philip heard that his ships were wrecked on 
rocks for a hundred miles, 

7 hat corpses thick as autumn leaves were heaped 
on the Orkney Isles, 

He meekly spoke his wisest words, at least they 
seem to me:— 

“I sent my ships to fight with ships but not with an 
angry sea.” 


Mad Philip and Bloody Mary, Michael stood that 
day 

On the chalk Cliffs of Dover and waved Spain’s 
power away, 

And the ghosts of Horn and Egmont hovered o’er 
Smithfield’s plain 

And Latimer’s voice and Ridley’s cried from the 
fire again. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 143 

Ye royal knaves, whom men call kings, who sit on 
tinsel thrones 

And fill the world with myriad ills and whiten with 
dead men’s bones, 

The Angel, that smote Herod, King Philip smote 
again! 

Surely “The Lord is done with you, give place to 
better men.” 


THE DRUMMER’S WOOING 

T OGETHER went they down the street 
She young and beautiful and sweet 
And he Apollo, but the bow 
Was Cupid’s, it is always so. 

A hardware drummer of the staff 
That always met each stern rebuff, 

He learned to gauge the buyer’s eyes 
And meet objections, ifs and whys. 

Love-making was a different thing, 

And plucked the feathers from his wing; 
“But still,” said he, “I’ll sail right in 
And win the girl who has the tin.” 

To dearest words of love,, she made 
No indication of her mind, but said, 

“With something from your ware will I 
Unto your question make reply.” 

“I know your gentle heart is true 
And loves the man who lives for you, 

And some day, darling, some day fair—” 
“I cannot answer on the square.!’ 


144 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


“That is a mason’s bond, I know, 

But with a woman ’tis not so; 

Man’s prosy methods give her pain 

And bring to her”—“Your thought is plane.” 

“My thought, indeed! My life I lay 
Upon your altar, and the day 
Will never come when love’s sweet law 
Will cease to”—“That is an old saw.” 

“Oh, heartless one, how can you speak 
Words that would terrify a Greek? 

The cannon’s mouth would not appall 
My heart on fire”—“I know it awl.” 

“If it were mine to live for you, 

While grass is green and skies are blue 
On love’s sweet voyage I would sail”— 

“And to the mast your colors nail?” 

“Oh, dearest, if you’d promise me 
Some day my loving wife to be, 

I’d live forever on your smile”— 

“And hang my picture on a file?” 

“Ye»s! with your picture hanging there 
By all that’s holy, I declare 
I’d live alone on love divine”— 

“Now, you are hewing to the line!” 

“For just one smile I’d cross the sea! 

Nor tide nor tempest would there be 
To blast my life if it were lit 
By your dear eyes”—“A little bit?” 

“No! I would want their rays divine 
Forever on my path to shine. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


i45 


Then, in life’s darkest hour I’d be”— 

“Be careful of your augur-y.” 

“Yes, I’ll be careful! Listen now, 

And heaven shall witness to my vow:— 

You are my life, my guiding star, 

My own, my darling!”—“Go ax pa!” 

THE HIGHBROWS 

W E often find a bunch in town 

Who’ve heired or crooked a pile 
Who meet one with an apish frown 
Or patronizing smile. 

Their bearing says, “I have the stuff, 

And you must sneeze when I take snuff.” 

They’ve robbed the poor by weight and rule 
The widows fleeced, but then 
They sit on Boards of Church and School 
And pass on honest men. 

What do they know, what do they care 
If they and their kin are ruling there? 

They talk about what “daddy done 
Some forty year ago,” 

But speak not of the worthless son 
That they have raised—no, no! 

“The times have changed,” they tell you now— 
From honest men to crook Highbrow. 

They have the perjured bankrupt’s creed, 

They break their honor’s word, 

They foul their names for nasty greed 
And condemn the poor unheard; 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


146 

Sunday, they sing in the choir or “bust/’ 

The other days, lie, cheat and cuss. 

Look through a bunch of negroes now, 

Where is the old-time “coon”? 

Mulattoes! Their mammies whine, “Somehow 
Dey wuz born on de light o’ de moon!” 

This may be so, but I remark 
The Highbrows ramble after dark. 

MEN, we’re in a hell of a fix, 

When things like these are true; 

Between Highbrows and Bolsheviks 
What are we coming to? 

That bunch is hastening their fate; 

Daddies of a Mulatto State. 


THE LITTLE LEAF 

A LITTLE leaf upon the ground 
Dropped from the parent tree 
A modest resting place had found 
Forever there to be. 

Once, it looked down with haughty pride 
Upon the shrubs below; 

Leaf from the oak, it thought, beside, 
’Twould always live and grow. 

Pardon, I ween, you will bestow 
Upon this transient thing; 

This feeling oftentimes you know— 

But of the leaf I sing. 

Time brought it full maturity; 

No longer was there need 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

For leaves upon the acorn-tree 
To grow the acorn-seed. 

A question: Did this tiny leaf 
Obscure within the wood 
During its happy life so brief 
Do any sort of good? 

There, in its place upon the tree 
It sheltered many a bird 
Which thanked it with a minstrelsy 
The poor leaf never heard. 

And in the long, hot summer days 
The heat from scorching west 
Poured on the leaf its burning rays 
Which screened the squirrel’s nest. 

The sick man lying on his bed 
Restrained by racking pain 
Heard music and was comforted 
By fluttering leaf and rain. 

Oh, little leaf, you’ll never know 
Your good beneath the sun, 

Before you went so far below, 

When all your work was done. 


PRUDIE DUDINE 


M ISS PRUDIE DUDINE was the belle of the 
town; 

Quite charming she was in her day 
As she rode in the car with young Sporty Hown, 
And she wore as she rode a Parisian gown 
That she bought in Avenue d’Orsay. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


148 

She had returned from a trip over sea 
With trunks and portmanteaus galore, 

She had cultured her voice in dear old Paris 
And held a diploma from Madame Dupleix 
L’ange de la conservatoire. 

And she had run over to grand old Berlin 
Where Bach and Beethoven are taught 
And week or two spent in sunny Vienne 
In pounding the piano new honors to win 
From stern Leschetizsky—for naught. 

But when she returned she was ladened with airs 
That she didn’t have when she went off; 

Her nerves were so shattered they needed repairs, 
She glided along with Terpsichorean ains 
Of her dance master, Monsieur Tartoffe. 

In six months her home-town was metamorphosed 
And the things that she loved years ago 
No longer the charm of her childhood disclosed 
But ugly and backward the village reposed, 

And for such a pianiste was too slow. 

Would she ising in the choir? ’Twas horrid, in¬ 
deed, 

To join in a rabble like that! 

A voice so divine with Caruso might speed, 

But never a note for a village hayseed 
In great Galli-Curci’s E-flat. 

And this is the bosh that we get from Paris 
And the Kultur we get from Berlin; 

She’d better stay home and rock a kiddee 
Than to stow away junk like a heathen Chinee 
In the loft where her brain should have been. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


149 


SIDNEY LANIER 

S WEET singer of our Southern land 

Whose harp-strings broke amid thy song, 
To whom the palm and crown belong 
By witchery of the master’s hand, 

How oft I think of thy hard lot 
Which made thy muse a daily jade; 

In poverty while wealth surveyed 
The Man it comprehended not. 

How oft I read each throbbing line 
And feel the warmth that glows within 
And from the Marshes of the Glynn 
Reflects the artist’s power divine. 

No fatuous flame dost thou impart; 

The noonday sun, the stars at night 
Are symbols of thy spirit’s light, 

Thy ministers of holy art. 

The little leaves whose voices dear 
Begrudged thee even transient sleep 
Still feel the zephyrs as they sweep 
To make the music thou didst hear. 

Little they knew, those nature friends, 
Whom thou didst love, who so loved thee, 

In realms of life abundantly 

That death for them has made amends. 

High-Priest of Art, thy wizard hand 
Has struck the note that will not die 
And fame and immortality 
Are thine through ages to command. 


150 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Then wear the crown we gladly give, 
The deathless crown of circling bay; 

A king might cast his own away 
Thy Poet’s homage to receive. 

PROGRESS 

TT is not always what we do, 

Less often what we think; 

The problem is, What shall we chew? 
And then what shall we drink? 

In olden-times our ancestors 
These knotty problems found 
And solved them at the river, or 
Scratched them out of the ground. 

And then some savage growing bold 
Found a cow’s shoulder-blade 
And dug into the ground for coal— 
The daddy of the spade. 

Then some one Hinted out a rock 
And threw the bone away; 

Such an invention was a shock 
To all, the cave-men say. 

Next century a genius found 
What no one else had thought, 

The shining iron in the ground 
And tools from this were wrought. 

They always found the iron soft; 

But in his eager zeal 

Some worker heated it and oft 

His new output was steel. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

A lazy toiler cast a plow 
And made a woman pull; 

Another yoked her with a cow— 
Both thought it wonderful! 

A toper made an iron pot 
To boil the roots for beer 
And when the stuff got boiling hot 
Behold the steam appear. 

They slowly built a steam machine 
That worked by night and day 
Until some guy with gasoline 
Showed them a better way. 

What next they’ll do I do not say, 
To prophesy is rash; 

I hope they’ll find some means to pay 
Our debts without the cash. 

THE TEMPLE OF THE SOUL 

S OUL, art thou building every day 
A lowly hovel by the way 
As thou dost pass along? 

Or dost thou build with noble art 
To guard the jewels of the heart 
A temple grand and strong? 

Oh Soul, the temple thou shouldst build 
Is not a city seven-hilled 
As Rome by Tiber’s flood, 

Nor like the house that Nero built 
Where every stone proclaimed the guilt 
Of mortar set in blood. 


152 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Nor should the temple thou shalt build 
Be like the one that David willed 
But built by Solomon 
Of Lebanon’s strong cedar trees 
Hewn out by Hiram’s wise decrees 
On old Moriah’s stone. 

Grand is the hoary pyramid 
That Cheops built, wherein are hid 
The treasures of his time, 

And old Cephrenes’ royal bones 
Repose beneath the musty stones 
He smoothed with sweat and grime. 

But, Soul, the temple thou shalt build 
With nobler treasures should be filled 
Than kings’ barbaric dust; 

For wisdom mightier than gold 
And faith triumphant shall behold 
A mansion more august. 

A ghostly hand at Babylon 
As King Belshazzar’s feast went on 
Wrote swiftly on the wall; 

But terror filled the gilded room 
And changed his royal blood and bloom 
To wormwood and to gall. 

Thou needst, oh Soul, no Moslem mosque 
Nor the muezzin’s cool kiosk 
Nor marble minaret, 

Nor altar ’neath the golden dome 
Of old Saint Peter guarding Rome 
With gorgeous jewels iset. 

Nor shouldst thou build a Parthenon 
Whose beauty and whose grace are gone 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


i 53 


By time’s austere decrees, 

For Turk and Tartar have profaned 
Athena’s presence and have stained 
The glorious shrine of Greece. 

Victorious Caesar proudly stood 
In Roman Senate stained with blood 
And felt himself supreme, 

Nor deigned to give a serious thought 
To what the Ides of March had brought 
Or old Murenna’s theme. 

But set at last his Nervian star, 

Nemesis hurried from afar 
Her fury to outpour, 

And his Pharsalian glory gone 
He crossed his Stygian Rubicon, 

But Charon held the oar. 

Be not, oh Soul, as Philip’s son 
Who lost his crown at Babylon 
’Mid draughts of Lesbian wine, 

For Alexandria’s sands now hold 
Immured in Median lead and gold 
Dust Ammon judged divine. 

The temple, Soul, that thou shouldst build 
When with transcendent beauty thrilled 
Should be love’s Pantheon, 

For richer music there will play 
Than Memnon’s harp at dawn of day 
When Egypt’s stars were gone. 

Nor build as Bonaparte an arch 
Neath which triumphant armies march 
To crown a demi-god, 


154 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


The sun of Austerlitz may rise 
To set behind the murky skies 
Of Waterloo in blood. 

The silent Sphinx ’neath Egypt’s skies 
Whose marble lips gave no replies 
To Cleopatra’s pleas 
Sits silent still mid shifting sands 
And gives no answers to demands 
Of passing centuries. 

The Taj Mahal stands all alone, 

A monument of snowy stone 
To her whose life had fled, 

But as the fleeting years go by 
That monument in dust will lie 
O’er the forgotten dead. 

Soul, build no temple doomed to fall, 
Nay, build not at ambition’s call 
As builders oft have done, 

But build a temple by thy faith 
Where life shall triumph over death 
In realms beyond the sun. 


HYPATIA 1 

TJYPATIA, queen of womanhood, 

A A Whose mortal life so soon was spent 
In efforts to make understood 
The glories of the firmament, 

1 Hypatia was a beautiful and cultivated woman who lectured 
on astronomy and wrote several scientific books. At forty she 
was burned as a heretic in Alexandria, in 415, because she did 
not accept the geocentric theory of the Universe. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

The good have grieved thy cruel fate, 

The wise thy virtues now can see, 

The good and wise, have come though late, 
To place the martyr’s crown on thee. 

That crown of light upon thy brow 
Dispersed by hate’s improvidence 
Has lit the centuries ’till now 
’Tis merged into plenipotence. 

Thou art a priestess now elsewhere 
As in the realm of knowledge here, 

But thou dost larger vision share 
Unmixed with doubt, unawed by fear. 

Nor will the hope thy name profane 
That some day we may join with thee 
Where the unknown may be made plain 
And life be more than mystery. 

Thus, faith speeds on with certain tread. 
Like some bright sun now in eclipse, 

To where the final hour is sped 
Into the great Apocalypse. 

And may we stand upon the peaks 
That rise from the eternities 
To see the primal orb that breaks 
And lights abysmal darknesses, 

Or speed our thought where never rule 
The vain conceits that men have known, 
Though still but in the vestibule 
Of God’s great temple, not alone. 

All that we know or do not know, 

All that we see or do not see, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


1 56 

By taper’s glare, Orion’s glow, 

Through variant paths lead up to Thee. 

We know not where the Presence is 
Nor dare His mysteries to explore; 

We know in light His shadow lies 
And faith impels us to adore. 

THE ISLANDS OF PEACE 

A WONDERFUL stream is the river of time 
Increasing in size as it goes, 

It glides on its way since the earth was in prime 
And into the future it flows. 

Its rivulets run from the mountain and plain, 

From the fens of the cypress and gloom, 

From valleys engorged by the turbulent rain 
And meads where the daffodils bloom. 

We know not the time when its current began, 

We know not the time it will cease, 

But we know on its bosom the wayfaring man 
Is borne to the Islands of Peace. 

Yet, little we know of those far away Isles 
Which we must inhabit some day, 

But we hope for the best as we measure the miles 
In moments that bear us away. 

On the banks of the river are castles of stone, 

The homes of the great and the grand; 

There are huts of the poor whose names are un¬ 
known, 

Whose annals are writ in the sand 


SOUTHERN POEMS 157 

But alike they embark on the wonderful stream, 
Alike they are lost to our view, 

And the life that they lived is to us but a dream, 
Yet a dream that is holy and true. 

There are gray-headed mothers whose angelic eyes 
Like stars in our memory gleam, 

There are fathers who joined them in race for the 
prize 

That waits at the end of the stream. 

There are sisters and brothers who onward were 
borne 

In the days of their beauty and prime, 

There are dear little children who left us forlorn 
As they swept down the river of time. 

Through the mists and the shadows we saw them 
depart 

In those distant regions to dwell 

As we folded their hands above the still heart, 

And wept as we bade them farewell. 

Great is the lure of those Islands afar, 

Away from earth’s glamor and glare, 

That we meekly surrender the life where we are 
And embark for those regions so fair. 

No wreckage abides on its current so calm, 

No tempest to mar its control, 

Its gondolas gliding through billows of balm 
To the joy and repose of the soul. 

And when we arrive at those far-away Isles, 

Those Islands so fair and so blest, 

Let us hope that our loved ones will greet us with 
smiles 

And welcome us into their rest. 


158 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


THE HIDDEN HANDS 

A BABY lay on a downy bed 
With eyes distended wide 
And gazed at waving roses red 
And white that bloomed outside. 
Unconscious was the little child 
Of aught but roses there, 

Nor knew a father looked and smiled, 
And smiling breathed a prayer. 

And what are we but children here 
Swayed by the fleeting sense 
Of things we see, regarded dear, 
Ordained by Providence? 

And though unseen the Father stands 
Nor speaks in a voice we hear, 

We are upheld by the hidden hands 
Of One who is standing near. 


THE MARNE 

A HUNDRED miles the Germans lay 
Along the sunny slopes of France, 
While serried ranks in vast array 
Came pouring onward night and day 
With glittering gun and polished lance. 

The dreadful silence soon is broke 
And by a million murderous guns 
The Hohenzollern tyrant spoke 
In tones that through the world awoke 
Eternal vengeance on the Huns. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

On sweep the vipers of the blood 
Spawned by the robber Zenghis Kahn 
Defiant of the laws of God, 

And drunk with endless lust for blood, 
Contemptuous of the rights of man. 

Tomorrow, Paris will be ours, 

Tomorrow, France will bite the dust, 
Tomorrow, those resplendent towers 
Will see us garlanded with flowers 
And we shall sate our German lust. 

No! Not while God maintains his throne, 
No! Not till France has felt the blight 
Of cowardice; ’till the encircling zone 
Of human hearts has left alone 
Our brothers battling for the right. 

No! Not ’till England’s sun has set 
On Cromwell and the peace he won, 

Nor ’till Columbia can forget 
That the immortal La Fayette 
Is marching on with Washington! 

Blot out the Lesson of the Years 
And glorify the lust of Cain, 

Oh, Vandals, drench the world with tears, 
But Man has neither doubts nor fears, 

For God will right all wrongs again. 

SYMPATHETIC 

"LJE lies upon the grassy sward 
With arms extended wide, 

His limbs are limp, his flesh is hard, 

A bottle by his side. 


159 


i6o SOUTHERN POEMS 

“Why is it that the man has died? 

Why should he suffer so?” she cried. 

A stranger all unknown to us, 

A hobo or a tramp, 

Now, but a lump of painted dust 
With pallid face and damp; 

Why is it that his face is pale? 

The bottle there will tell the tale. 

His brow is high, his eyes are bright, 

His hands are tender, soft; 

His skin is clear and smooth and white, 

His lips, I’m sure, have oft 

Blessed with the glory of their wealth 

Some dear one, when he was in health. 

She spread a kerchief o’er his face, 

Some salty tears beside, 

And said, “I know that in this ca*se (weeps) 
Some secrets dark abide. 

Ah! Has he lost exalted place— 

Or forfeited some dear girl’s grace?” 

“Or has misfortune frowned on him 
And brought him to the brink 
Of ruin? Or grief to the brim 
Forbidden that he think?” (kerchief and tears) 
The dead man said:—“Dat’s—hie—jest—er— 
whim! 

I wants er—hie—nuzzer—drink!” (exit!) 
UNSATISFIED 

T HE day is past, the night has come 
And darkness deep, profound 
Has shut the distant hills from view 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


And in the fields around 

Deep silence reigns. All is at rest 

Except a something in my breast. 

My real needs are all supplied, 

My future seems assured, 

I’m wiser than some years ago 
By what I have endured; 

What is it that I wish beside, 

And why am I not satisfied? 

That is a question often asked 
But never finds reply, 

And yet it seems something would give 
The power to satisfy. 

The question will be asked again, 

Yet all its asking will be vain. 

The heavens above, the earth beneath 
Some secrets yield to us 
From mighty planets as they go 
To whirling cosmic dust. 

But still, I wish to soar afar 
And all things learn of sun and star. 

Within I find a universe 
Where wondrous powers dwell, 
Thoughts that may lift me to the skies 
Or drag me down to hell. 

Whence are these powers, and who am I ? 
These answered, would that satisfy? 

In vain I strike my outstretched wings 
Against surrounding bars; 

My thoughts go wandering through space 


162 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


All nebulous with stars. 

No answer science gives to me, 

A microcosmic entity. 

Had I the diamonds underneath 
Golconda’s wondrous state, 

Or crowns and scepters everywhere 
As Alexander Great, 

Such tinsel gewgaws I would spurn 
To know the truths for which I yearn . 

Were I a ruthless doctrinaire 
Possessed by fiery zeal, 

Or were I Galen’s wisest son 
Inspired with power to heal 
The pains of flesh, the ills of pride, 

I could not thus be satisfied. 

Had I the fame of Washington 
Greatest in peace or war, 

Or had I Cromwell’s mighty arm 
Born neath a lucky star, 

Or like Napoleon naught denied, 

Like them I’d be unsatisfied. 

Were all the world my parish 
As John Wesley great and good, 

Or had I knowledge for my field 
As Francis Bacon would, 

Like Herschel, I would turn my eye 
To higher worlds to satisfy. 

There is no satisfaction here 
Such as we might desire, 

Though a consuming passion yearn 
And burn like raging fire. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Yet in some other, nobler sphere 
I may attain what is not here. 

There, with the sages of the past 
Who were my masters here 
Progressing to the utmost goal 
In holy light and clear, 

Still learning what I have not tried, 
I only can be satisfied. 

THE GOSSIPERS 

T HE officers two women bring 
One day into the court, 

Both charged with idle gossiping, 
According to report. 

The judge said, “Ladies, I will hear 
Just what you have to say; 

Let now the simple truth appear— 
Speak for yourselves, I pray.” 

The first one spoke. “I only know 
What from a friend I heard, 

Nor was I by temptation led 
To add a single word.” 

The other wept. “1 also know 
What this good woman said, 

And she admits >she told me so; 

And this I truly plead.” 

Then said the judge, “It doth appear 
That both today be hung, 

The listener swung up by the ear 
The tattler by the tongue.” 


163 


164 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Then cried they both at the same time 
“Oh judge, you horrid thing, 

It makes me sick, when I have dined 
Upon a rope to swing!” 

The judge replied, “I’ll see to it 
That justice mercy brings, 

If you will promise me to quit 
Such idle gossipings. 

“Now, ladies, think and then decide 
Just what you have to say.” 

Then, both immediately replied 
“I’d rather hang today!” 

A WISH 

O H, were I but a little bird 
And thou another one 
Together we would fly, 

And I would whisper and each word, 

My dear, would be for thee alone— 
Alone, just thou and I. 

And we would sit beneath the shade 
Where branch and vine have met 
Within the leafy grove, 

Thou, in thy gorgeousness arrayed 
And I adoring till the set 
Of sun, chirping of love. 

And I would build a nest for thee 
Of twigs and downy moss 
Beneath the spreading leaf, 

And little nestlings there would be 
Within thy nest by zephyrs tossed 
Nor would my song be brief. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 165 

There we would watch the stars go down, 
Would see the sun arise; 

To thee, my queen, I’d sing; 

Dewdrops would sparkle on thy crown 
With rosy light within thine eyes, 

And I would be thy—king. 

THE POILU 

T IS a story of human sacrifice, 

Where a soldier’s valor won, 

Of a slacker’s lust and a woman’s eyes 
And a hero of Verdun. 

Their humble home was at Rochelle 
In the breeze of the sea and the sun, 

With his child Aimee and his good wife, Belle, 
’Till Der Tag of the hellish Hun. 

The soft wind gently rocked his boat 
As the fish swam in from the bay, 

But no dearer cargo was ever afloat 
Than Belle and petite Aimee. 

A signal soon he sees on the shore 
As though a bolt from the sky, 

Jean cuts his fishnets, grabs his oar 
And kisses them both goodbye. 

To the armory goes he on a run. 

For the uniform of a poilu, 

His blanket, and kit, his knapsack and gun— 
Oh, Belle, he would die for you! 

For six months through the snow and rain 
Came the hordes of the dreadful Hun, 


166 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


But the heroic poilus again and again 
Hurled them back from the gates of Verdun. 

But the terrible time for Jean had come, 

A Bertha drops from the skies! 

In a moment some bits of exploded bomb 
Bring blindness to both his eyes. 

The word reached home that Jean was dead 
And a slacker cast eyes at Belle, 

What happened I never heard or read— 

(If I knew I never would tell). 

But Jean returned to his humble home, 

And Belle weeps so—he is blind, 

But the slacker failed not at times to come, 
He knew he’d be hard to find. 

Little Aimee sits upon Jean’s knee; 

“Whose is the voice that I hear?” 

And peeping around the door, Aimee 
Said, “Antoine Ledoux is here.” 

“Aimee, did you see the big rat run?” 

“Non, mon pere,” said little Aimee; 

“Go swiftly and bring my army gun, 

Open the door—then run to play.” 

Jean calls the slacker, “Antoine Ledoux”! 
“Here,” said the coward, in fear; 

“A soldier shoots at a noise, I hear you”— 
And the gun rang loud and clear. 

“Why do you bring poor, blind Jean here?” 
(The officer) “He killed Ledoux; 

A coward, a slacker and worse I fear!” 

“You are free—the state thanks you.” 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


167 


Poor Jean saw not her blushes and charms 
But he spoke not a word of blame; 

She swooned, but he held her in his arms— 
“Belle, mon ange, toujours je t’aime”! 

THE SWINE-HERDER 

J UST a few years or so 
Led on by malice 
A band of assassins go 
To Serbia’s palace; 

Then this assassin band, 

No one to hinder, 

Draga and Alexander 
Hurl through the window. 

Needed no sentry word, 

Guards let them pass in, 

Unsheathed the whetted sword 
By the assassin. 

Peter Karageorgevitch 
Sprung from swine-herder 
Now will determine which 
Shall rule by murder. 

Not an assassin red 
Called to accounting, 

By the swine-herder led 
Now the throne mounting. 

Europe stands quite aghast 
At the intruder, 

Forgetting that her past 
Shows things far ruder. 

In the peninsula 
Christened the Balkan 


168 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


Breaks out a mighty war 
In which now all can 
Join in a grand affray; 

What could be meeter 
Than begin right away 
With bloody Peter. 

On through the slush and snow 
Comes the Bulgarian; 

Peter retreats below— 

Cause utilitarian; 

Turks to the east of him, 
Austrian and German 
Bright be his reign or dim 
Soon will determine. 

Into Montenegro’s 
Mountainous regions 
From Macedonia go 
Peter’s sad legions. 

Back to the woods and bogs 
He once a king and rich, 

Back to his feeding hogs 
Goes Karageorgevitch. 

ICHABOD 

]VTO sorrow comes as unto those 
T ^ Who every joy have tasted 
From every cup that pleasure knows 
With every blessing wasted. 

The carnal heart, the sensual eye, 
Earth’s pleasures for a season 
The warning call of God defy, 
Nor heed the pleas of reason. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 

Bound hand and foot, they scout all aid 
With sharp, sarcastic sentence 
And boast that they have never prayed 
And never need repentance. 

Though for poor Esau’s pot of herbs 
Their birth-right they have bartered, 
Why should the thought of death disturb 
Them uniformed or gartered? 

For such engrossed in low design 
Ne’er raise their vision higher 
To know 1 the touch of the Divine 
And his refining fire. 

For them no Christian suns arise, 

No happy song-birds singing, 

No azure tints in evening skies, 

No bells of conscience ringing. 

Vain are Calpurnia’s earnest pleas 
Her wifely love adorning, 

Vain is the Hand that writes decrees 
For mad Belshazzar’s warning. 

And vainer still the insane wrath 
Which Pharaoh’s will discloses; 

The Red Sea opens up a path 
For God’s elect and Moses. 

Vainest is Herod’s stern decree 
Toward Ramah’s children sleeping; 
Michael bids his parents flee, 

The infant Jesus keeping. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


170 


Unheeded the avenging rod 
Upon such callous hearted; 
Their legion name is Ichabod, 
Their glory has departed. 

THE HOROSCOPE 

W E stood by the window 
With no one to hinder, 
For gazing at stars 
We know seldom mars 
Two hearts in communion 
That contemplate union; 

But quite the contrary, 

We’re much prone to tarry, 
Our telescopes raising 
And just keep on gazing. 

It happened that night 
That all things were right, 

Yes, all things but one— 

Of glass we had none. 

The feelings ethereal, 

The bodies sidereal, 

No clouds in the sky 
And the air clear and dry. 

So, tonight and forever 
We must settle or never 
With the stars burning o’er us 
The question before us. 

But how could we hope 
With no telescope 
To sweep through the sky 
With the unaided eye? 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


If we put our heads to it 
We surely could do it, 

For we’ve often heard say 
If a will, there’s a way. 


And thus cogitating 
Our mischance berating, 

I saw in the dark 
A flickering spark. 

Ah! I said, “That’s the thing— 
Your bediamonded ring!” 


Thus we stood, as I said, 

By the window and read 
What the stars in the sky 
Would reveal to the eye— 
Would reveal to two waiting 
Hearts seeking their mating. 


Ah, could you have seen her 
Angelic demeanor, 

You would have decided 
Exactly as I did, 

That never a creature 
With lovelier feature 
Than this fair Madonna 
With the starlight upon her, 
That never a woman 
Had captured a true man, 

And then by her capture 
Had enthralled by such rapture 
The slave at her feet 
In submission complete. 


172 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


You’d have made the admission 
No picture of Titian 
Or Praxiteles 

Had such power to please; 
Though his income a duke’s is, 
Apelles or Zeuxis, 

Had he tried till he fainted, 
Could never have painted 
With tints from the skies 
The bright gleam of her eyes. 

But there was the star 
In the distance afar; 

Nor would I have blundered 
Had I said a hundred 
Were shining up there 
In seeming despair, 

In despair of our turning 
Our eyes on their burning— 
Those seeming bituminous 
Bodies so luminous 
Dispensing their light 
In the depths of the night 
That we might prognosticate 
What should be our fate, 

And by this prognosis 
Determine if roses 
Or thorns would be ours— 

So ordained by the powers. 

And that horoscope! 

How I trembled with hope 
And hoped as I trembled, 

My feelings dissembled. 

For, sweeping the sky 
Through the ring with her eye, 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


i73 


Now lower, now higher 
With eyes flashing fire 
To ask from those beaming 
Stars sparkling and gleaming 
What vision declare 
To her soul waiting there, 
What destiny stating 
To my heart palpitating. 


Then, she looking at me, 

Said, “Two stars do I see, 

One small, but as bright 
As a diamond its light, 

One larger, whose rays 
Like a sun-burst ablaze; 

In the sky there I found them 
With a ring all around them!” 


Too astonished to speak, 

I hastened to seek 
A full confirmation; 

For such demonstration 
Would confirm my opinion 
Of stellar dominion 
Over souls such as ours, 

And that pre-natal powers 
By some combination 
Had ordained our relation 
For better or worse 
In this univense; 

An old-time opinion 
That has long held dominion 
Over horoscope makers— 
Too often but fakirs. 


174 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


What savant or king 
Ever had such a ring? 

A ring to locate 
In the heavens his fate 
And by this locating 
His destiny stating? 

For plainly I saw 
Mixed with rapture and awe, 
Yes, I saw in a minute 
A ring with stars in it! 

And near by the rim, or 
The edge although dimmer, 
Two stars brightly shining 
And clearly defining 
That they were related— 
Celestially mated! 


That look was the last, 

For the die was now cast; 
Our fears now were ended, 
Our destinies blended 
And no man’s endeavor 
Our hearts could dissever 
Or break the sweet union 
Of souls in communion. 


To the altar I led her 
And by the ring wed her 
And the halo around her 
Is just as I found her— 
Her eyes full of hope 
Glow in love’s horoscope. 


SOUTHERN POEMS 17 < 

WHERE ALL ROADS COME TOGETHER 

O difference the spin of the weather 
In city, on mountain or heather, 

In the city of Rome 
Or place we call home, 

There’s a place where all roads come together. 

There’s a baby just born, and is crying, 

There’s a woman that’s swooning and dying; 
There are friends standing near 
To both of them dear, 

Farewell—and two mute lips replying 

There’s a clap! and a bolt has descended, 

A groan, and a dear life has ended; 

There’s a woman who kneels 
And a failing pulse feels, 

And a loss all uncomprehended. 

There’s a church full of serious people, 

And a bell that will toll in the steeple; 

There’s a steel wagonette 
And a box on it set, 

That henceforth his ashes will keep all. 

There’s a prayer and a song and a sermon 
And the clergyman soon will determine 
How good he was, why, 

(For the bad never die) 

And then the omnivorous vermin. 

There are some kind-hearted folks weeping 
As they look on the face of the sleeping; 

There’s a sound on the street 
Of autos and feet— 

(In the old time they went away creeping). 


SOUTHERN POEMS 


176 

There’s a grave all covered with flowers, 
They will wilt in twenty-four hours 
And soon they will rot, 

(And both be forgot) 

Ere the clods are dissolved by the showers. 

Soon the heirs will exhibit their mettle 
And call in the lawyers to settle, 

And they hum and haw 
Over hair-splitting law— 

(As they wink at the fish in the kettle). 

No difference the spin of the weather 
In city, on mountain or heather, 

As the wide world we roam, 

Mid the comforts of home, 

At the grave-pit all roads come together. 


THE END 


PUBLICATION NOTICE 

This book is printed privately. It is copyrighted 
and all rights reserved. The price is $1.50 per 
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dealers or others, who may desire to sell them. 
Terms cash with order. A card is attached, pre¬ 
paid back to me. Please read it and do me the 
kindness to fill it out and mail to me. Thanks. 

F. E. Butler, 

Jacksonville, 

Texas. 


ERRATA 

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74—They buried them all 

74—Comrades In Arms is a part of The Sacrifice and 
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